


A Snake in the Grass

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Not completely linear, Political Marriage, Sex in the prologue!, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa arrives at court to formally annul her marriage years after the events of AFFC and ADWD. Once again, she is drawn into the court life of danger, politics, and intrigue that pulls her into an unexpected royal match.</p><p>Featuring <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid">BlueCichlid</a>  as co-author on noted chapters.</p><p>Currently a solitary effort by WendyNerd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Royal Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> The first collaborative effort between WendyNerd (Trials and Tricks, The Lost Lion, Papa) and Bluecichlid (Ties of Blood and Fire)! Guys, we're starting out with the prologue and the royal wedding. Smut up front! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Update: Currently a solitary effort by WendyNerd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a non-linear prologue. The next chapter will jump back in time to Sansa's arrival at the Red Keep.

Prologue:

**Fourth day of the Sixth Moon, 305 AL**

Jon stared into his cup of Arbor Gold and very decidedly not at her. Sansa kept her smile plastered to her face as she looked around at all the revelers gathered to celebrate their wedding.  So few of the faces were friendly.  She wished for the sight of two faces in particular, but she knew they were gone and she could not will them back. The bitter faces of men like Daven Cerwyn and Dormer Ryswell, who had sought her for themselves, were no comfort. They were here for the wine and the chance to grope her at the bedding. 

She was alone.

And yet, she could feel so many eyes on her: Tyrells, Martells, Northerners, the king. They all were likely thinking along the same lines. _They have no interest. There will be no consummation. This match shall be as valid as her last. They’re both still ripe for the taking._

Only the dragon queen seemed to watch them with hopeful eyes. The queen, and her Hand, who seemed to be growing frustrated with Jon’s reluctance to even look at his bride. 

Sansa took meticulous care with her appearance, assisted by the queen herself and all the best dressmakers across the Targaryen Empire. She drew every eye in the city except her new husband’s. Now she regretted it. _He’s so afraid of staring too long that he won’t even spare me a glance._ She wanted to think that was it. 

One pair of eyes was still on her, the gaze she hated most. Feared most. Sansa shivered. Images of gold braids flashed before her eyes. She couldn’t eat. If she ate, she’d throw up all over her white silk. 

Sansa glanced nervously at Jon once more. _Gods, look at me. Please. They have to know this marriage is valid. Margaery Tyrell is two tables down. Lack of consummation resulted in her last marriage being set aside. And mine. I can’t have this dissolved._

 Summoning her courage, she reached over to Jon and placed her hand over his. He nearly jumped out of his skin. To his credit, at the very least, he kept her hand in his. But instead of meeting her eyes, he focused on her hand, rubbing the back of it with an uncertain thumb, seemingly fascinated by her sapphire ring.

Sansa looked up and caught the queen’s violet eyes, which were sympathetic but slightly incredulous. She could feel the questions going off in her head. _Why this? Lords from half the realm were courting you.  Trystane Martell might have made you the Princess of Dorne.  You had the chance to heal the wounds of Robert’s Rebellion, and cement the peace.  Instead you have scorned him and infuriated the king, passed over your brother’s banner men, and forsook great alliances, all for a marriage to a man you do not love.  Why would you choose this?_

The glare of the gold plate, jewelry, and torches were starting to bother her eyes. Her last wedding stayed omnipresent in her mind. _I will not ask to dance this time. I will not allow any man but my husband the chance to put their hands on me._

Her breath caught as she saw Tyrion limp over, Lady Lyria holding his hand. _Oh no. He’s going to say something humiliating. No. No. No. Stay away. You can’t be here. We don’t need to remind people how my last marriage ended up. Don’t goad Jon, Tyrion. Please._

The Hand of the King either didn’t notice the panicked look in her eyes or chose to ignore it as he came forward. “Congratulations, Your Grace,” he said to Jon, “Your new wife is lovely. Glad to see she finally has a husband worthy of her after suffering me all those years. A man couldn’t ask for a more beautiful bride.”

The restraint and courtesy of this shocked Sansa more than the lewdest jape could have. Jon tensed up, looking nervous. “You’re very kind, Lord Tyrion.”

“No, just observant. She was fruit too high on the tree for me to take, I’m afraid.  It’s about time she found a man tall enough to pluck her while she’s still ripe.”

 _There it is._ Sansa blushed. She felt oddly grateful for this, though. Jon went scarlet and cast a harsh eye upon the Hand. “I’d ask that you guard your words, My Lord.”

“Forgive my betrothed, Your Grace,” Lady Lyria cut in, “But I hope you object more to the clumsy metaphor than Lord Tyrion’s point. We fear you spent so much time looking at her hands that you’ve failed to notice the rest of her. A sad thing, when your bride looks so lovely. Or do you disagree?”

“Of course she looks lovely, My Lady,” Jon replied, finally giving Sansa a reluctant look. His eyes locked on her then. He seemed to struggle. “She’s… She’s beautiful.”

“Oh look, Darling, he noticed,” Tyrion said, his eyes wide in mock surprise. “It seems we’ve accomplished our objective. Come now, my dear. Lady Sansa already had to suffer through one wedding looking too long at this face. Now that her new husband has deigned to meet her eyes, she’d most likely prefer to spend this one looking into his. Let’s distract them no longer. Young love must flourish.” 

When Menford Velaryon raised a toast, Jon tore his eyes away from her. He tried to keep his eyes averted the rest of the evening, but kept stealing small glances. Sansa tried to puff out her chest a bit when she caught him looking, and kept her smiles sweet.  Few returned them.

The greatest test came when the king and his Martell cousin came forward. Sansa felt herself deflate. The smiles on both faces were false, each looking at Jon with varying degrees of resentment. Sansa shifted towards Jon as Aegon congratulated his brother with muted enthusiasm, and kissed her fingertips.

“I wish you the best, Goodsister,” the king said in a clipped tone

“I thank you, Your Grace. You are too kind.”

Some of the Northmen came forward to offer their begrudging congratulations as well. Daven Cerwyn, his mouth in a hard line, congratulated her on “settling with a piece of home.”

Sansa found herself almost wishing Tyrion was with her again. _Tyrion’s the reason you’re in this mess. You’d be feasting at Highgarden, laughing with Willas Tyrell if not for him._ But at least Tyrion knew the truth.

When the cry went up for the bedding, she tensed. Jon gave her a desperate look. He’d asked her several times if she wanted him to object. She told him no. _They need to know we’re wedded and bedded. It has to happen._ Sansa would let him take her right on the banquet table if it meant validating her marriage in the eyes of everyone there. 

Sansa tried not to sob out loud as she felt the hands on her. Bile rose to her throat when Aegon tore away her bodice. A cheer went up as her breasts spilled out. When she saw the men gather, and the hands reached for her, she froze up entirely, unable to move or speak or respond in any way. She wanted to kick and scream.  _I’ll be broken before we get to the bedchamber._

Before long, even Aegon seemed concerned about her reaction. He grabbed Trystane’s wrist as the Prince of Dorne stripped off her other stocking and barked for the others to stop joking and groping. “Let’s just get her to my brother’s bed before she pisses herself from fear.”

There were shouts of protest and Aegon wearily ordered them away. He pulled Sansa, down to her smallclothes, to him and picked her up bridal style. “I’m king, I’ve got the right to touch her last before my brother beds her.” 

“She’s the daughter of the North!” Albert Glover cried. “Let us keep her warm!”

One look from their king silenced them, though.

Sansa held back her sobs of humiliation and fear. _I am a Stark of Winterfell._ The king’s hands seemed to burn. _Pretend he’s Sandor, carrying you away from the mobs._ At that moment, she certainly felt as young as she had been on that day.

The others groaned, but followed their king’s orders, walking behind them and continuing to joke.

“You know, in Dorne, the beddings aren’t allowed to commence without the consent of the bride and groom both. Not a hand is to touch either until they beckon the guests. You could be walking to your wedding chamber in privacy, without all this mess,” Aegon hissed at her.

Sansa shut her eyes tight and tried to ignore him. When she heard a collection of feminine voices, she relaxed slightly and opened her eyes. They were in one of the opulent royal bedchambers, hung with fine red silk and furnished with mahogany. Jon was being pushed onto the bed by a collection of hands that tore his undertunic off. He let it tear away, but scrambled under the covers before his smallclothes could be removed.

“Oh! He’s shy!”

“No, my ladies, I just believe some things ought to be kept between a man and his lady wife,” replied her husband, his tone and gaze firm and cold. The women sighed and pulled away as Aegon brought Sansa over. They declared him no fun.

The king plopped the bride at the foot of the bed sitting upright. Sansa’s hands immediately went to cover her breasts as she scooted back to climb under the covers.

Aegon gazed at the couple dispassionately. “There you go, Brother. You get to return to Winterfell at last. Hopefully you won’t find it too frigid.” 

Jon arm went around her as most of the men laughed and turned to leave. Trystane lingered for a few seconds. The king took his arm gently and the two cousins left.

It wasn’t until the doors shut and the voices died away that Sansa realized she was still shaking.

Jon withdrew his arm almost at once. “I’m sorry, My Lady. I did not mean to…”

Sansa swallowed her fears and cast a kind eye upon him. Her whole attitude had to be welcoming, kind, and at ease. She had to make sure he did this. “A husband should not have to apologize for touching his lady wife.”

Jon looked terrified.

 _We have to do this._ Sansa lowered her hands, baring her breasts to him. _He won’t touch you unless he believes you want it._

She could make herself want him, she imagined. He wasn’t hideous like Tyrion. His face was long and solemn but well formed, his cheekbones high, his lips full, and his eye dark and soulful. His hair was thick, dark, and curly. His chest and arms, marked all over with scars, were well muscled. He had an earthy, natural, masculine smell to him.

 _I could very easily want this man,_ she realized, _I just need to forget what we once were to each other._ She blocked out the thoughts of everyone else--- the men who had stripped her, all those eyes upon her. _This is not the half-brother or the boy I knew._

“You’re scared,” he told her.

 _So are you,_ she wanted to point out. Instead, she replied, “Of them, not you.”

“Were they--- Did they go too far?” 

“No farther than was to be expected. It just frightened me.”

“Then why did you insist upon it?”

She sighed. “To lessen doubts as to the validity of this marriage. My wedding to Tyrion had no bedding.”

He swallowed. “We don’t have to---" 

“—We do,” she insisted. She reached out tentatively and brushed his neck with her fingers. “And I want to.”

He hesitated. “But you… With what you’ve been through…”

 _You don’t know what I’ve been through. You aren’t going to judge me._ “Please, Jon. Don’t you--- Do I not please you?”

“That’s not it!” He insisted, looking away guiltily. “I just don’t want to use you like everyone else.”

Sansa almost gave a bitter laugh. _As if I’m the one being used._ She hated herself. “You’re not.”

“I am. You should have a man you love. Not another poor political match. Tyrion at least didn’t touch you---“

“---He did,” Sansa confessed, her stomach twisting itself into a knot.

Jon looked at her in confusion. “But… He refused a bedding. Everyone knows you didn’t consummate.” 

“He intended to, until the last minute. It’s just instead of having me stripped by his nephew and the court, he preferred to have me strip myself as I cried in our bedchamber. And he did touch me. After he exposed himself and groped me, only then did he decide not to take my maidenhead. A man can take advantage without taking your virginity.” 

Jon shivered and pulled away. “All the more reason for me to leave this bed.”

“No! Jon, please---!”  She cursed herself for mentioning it.

He shook his head and got out, hurrying over to a desk at the far wall. He found a letter opener. “I’ll cut myself, there will be blood on the sheet. They’ll never know.”

“They’ll guess when my belly doesn’t swell. Or your brother will force you to set me aside for infertility.” _I can’t believe this._ Since she was a young girl, she’d been fending off the advances of men. Now she was in bed with a husband she’d almost chosen, and she was begging him. Sansa marveled at her life. 

“I won’t.” 

“Has it ever occurred to you, Jon, that I actually want a true marriage and children of my own?” Sansa demanded. He stopped short at that. She sighed. “When I married Tyrion, I was only informed of it that very morning. I was wearing the dress before I knew. Literally. I just thought I was getting a new gown, that it was a gift from Cersei. The queen threatened to have me dragged in and forced at swordpoint. She had her handmaids grab me and keep me from running. This time, I’ve known for moons. I agreed, freely. I had a choice, and I chose you.” 

“Because you were afraid.  I saw – the men at the bedding frightened you..” 

“I have learnt to be wary of men, and what they want from me, yes.  All men. Except you.” _And Willas._ But he didn’t need to know that. “All I want is a man I can love instead of fear. Someone who’ll love me instead of just what I can give him. Is that so wrong?” 

Jon dropped the knife. He gave her the kindest look. “O-of course not. But---” 

Sansa got out of the bed and walked over to stand in front of him. The evening air turned her naked skin to gooseflesh. But she stood before him, stripping of her remaining stocking and smallclothes until she was completely bare. “Look at me. Please. Look at me. Don’t you… Don’t you think you could love me? As a husband loves his lady wife?”

 _Being loved by a man willing to bleed to spare you some discomfort is not a bad thing._ Most men would look at her and only see their rights. Jon wanted to protect her. She nearly wept at the thought. _Jon wants to protect me._

“I-I’d be good to you, Jon. I swear it. I’d be faithful and kind. I’d love you and our children with all my heart. And I’m strong. I could… I could give you plenty of children, I’m sure. I’ve always been healthy, I’m young. My mother gave Father five children, three were boys. All of us were healthy. I’d make sure you never regretted marrying me, I promise. Please, I just want to be loved… the way I was always promised someone would love me." 

After a few awkward, gaping seconds, Sansa turned away, hugging herself, tears pricking her eyes. _I’m such a fool._ _I’m terrible._ The words she spoke, the plea she’d made… She actually meant it all. But it was wrong to ask it of Jon. It wasn’t fair. She’d already pulled him into this marriage. Now she was demanding that he love her. _How could he? A frightened little bird like me?A girl who he used to think of as a sister?_

 _What am I doing?_ She’d utterly humiliated herself.

Footsteps. Before long, she felt the heat of his body against her back. _Oh gods, now he pities me._ Pity was the death of desire. She should have seduced him properly. Petyr used to walk her through ways to do it before he died. She should have smiled coyly, batted her eyelashes, touched him, touched herself.

Arms encircled her waist and pulled her close. His body was warm, his breathing heavy. His hands went to her hair and began unpinning it from its elaborate style so it tumbled down around her shoulders and neck. Relief flooded through her.

Kisses her hair, her neck, her shoulders, her cheeks followed. Both their loins seemed to stir. She turned slowly and kissed his mouth, finding it full and gentle.

Jon stroked her sides and cupped her breasts. As their tongues danced together, he backed her towards the bed. Breaking away, he smiled kindly and lay her down, moving gently over her. She parted her legs, expecting him to just take her there. Instead, he began lowering his mouth and pressing kisses to her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. When he got there, she arched her back and gasped, nipples pebbling under his mouth.

Then it went lower. His lips went to her belly, then her hips and then…

“ _Jon!”_ She grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, shocked. He’d just licked her. And though it felt lovely, it was not anything expected. “What are you--- You can’t…”

Grey eyes met her. “Why?”

“It’s… It’s not _proper._ ” 

“Who says?”

Sansa gaped at him. “No… No one _says._ It’s just… It’s just not what is _done._ ”

“It’s what I do. I want to please you.”

A blush came to her cheeks. “It pleases me to please my lord husband.”

“Tasting you would please me very much, Sansa.” His voice became rough. “I want to taste you peaking against my mouth before I make love to you.”

Her mouth went dry. “Oh… Okay.”

She tensed up as his head dipped again. The first few licks were like a small bolts of lightning. And then… Soon she was clutching his head and rutting against his mouth. Tension built up inside her. “Oh… Oh…. Oh! OH!”

Somewhere within her, there was a breaking point. She reached it and felt the strength leave her limbs. Her body jerked. It took her a while to remember where she was or what she was doing. And then, she realized to her embarrassment, that her thighs were still gripping Jon’s head like a vice. She spread them, humiliated. Then he looked up and smiled, his beard wet.

“Are you alright, My Lady?”

“Y-yes…” Sansa struggled to find her breath. “L-Lovely… D-did I hurt you?”

He laughed. “I didn’t expect your legs to be that strong but… No, Sweetling. Do you want to go to sleep now?”

Sansa’s stomach sank. “What? No… We have to…”

“We don’t have to tonight,” he insisted. Sansa’s face fell. _Why is he resisting this so much?_ With a horrible jolt a thought came to her. _Is he unable?_

That would just be her luck. Finally, she had a kind husband who could please her, and he couldn’t work his cock. Or maybe he preferred men. What he’d just done to her seemed to imply he knew his way around a woman’s parts, but maybe what he just did was easy to get right. _Maybe that’s why he joined the Watch._

Sansa sat up, panicking. But when she looked down, she saw more than enough evidence that her husband was both capable of and enthusiastic about enjoying her body. He still had his smallclothes on, but they were largely tented and practically bursting open. It looked painful.

Her hands went for his smallclothes, but he caught her wrist. “Sansa…”

“Why don’t you want to make love to me?”

“I _do._ I just don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa bit her lip. “Please, Jon. I’m ready.”

Her husband sighed. “Lie back.”

Sansa did as he asked, falling back on the bed and closing her eyes. A flutter went through her belly when she felt his weight push the mattress down. Hot breath played over her skin. Jon parted her lower lips with his fingers and kissed her full on the mouth. She could feel the tip of him brushing her entrance before slowly pushing in. 

Her body stretched around him and pain hit her as something tore. She tensed, and Jon stopped moving, his breathing quick and shallow now. 

 _He’s stopping himself. Why?_ Sansa had known more than her fair share of men who couldn’t seem to resist _touching_ her. _But he’s inside me, and he’s stopped._ She gasped a bit, and kissed his lips. Her mouth stayed joined with his until the pain receded. Once gone, she broke away, looked into his eyes, and spoke. “Move.”

At first, his pace was slow, and he handled her like she was made of glass. It didn’t take long for her to get used to it. While she didn’t doubt there’d be some ache later on, twinges of pleasure began to mount until it covered any discomfort. The sensation became less a matter of being invaded and more a matter of being filled. Pleasantly. 

Soon, she was rolling her hips to meet his thrust and moaning. Pressure built up within her again, that same odd, twining, irresistible pressure she suddenly couldn’t seem to get enough of.

Her eyes fluttered open, and Jon hovered over her, staring intently at her face. She smiled, reaching up to clutch his cheeks and pull him into another kiss. His pace picked up and Sansa came closer and closer to the edge.

She peaked once more with a loud cry, loud enough for the whole Red Keep to hear. And it didn’t matter to her in the least. _I hope they can all hear it._ Any number of jokes would certainly be worth this. At that, she forgot about the court. She forgot about  Tyrion and Aegon and Trystane, about Daenerys and her lost friends. All that existed was this odd reverie. 

Even as it died down, her whole body seemed to hum pleasantly. Sansa hugged her husband close when she regained her senses. Registering what had happened, he lost that slow pace, taking his wife with wild abandon until he moaned and spent within her. Sansa’s toes curled as she felt the heated liquid burst within her.

Her husband collapsed on top of her, but she didn’t mind the weight. She felt warm, triumphant, and filled. Jon tried to pull away, but she hooked her legs around his hips and her arms about his back. “Stay with me,” she whispered.

His hands went to her hair, stroking it adoringly. “You smell so good,” he murmured.

Sansa smiled. “Thank you.”

Eventually, he did pull off of her, suggesting they get under the covers. Sansa pulled herself up. All of a sudden, Jon’s expression changed as his eyes fell on the covers between her legs. His mouth fell open, his eyes grew wide.

Sansa looked. Her maiden’s blood left a red splatter on the cream silk coverlet. It was less than she expected: just a few splotches and smears. The coverlet would have to be patched. But otherwise, no matter. She smiled. _No one will be able to deny that I am truly wed now. I’m wedded and bedded, safe._

“Is… is that your moon blood?”

“No!” She blinked at him. The idea shocked her. “Of course not. I would not schedule my wedding when I’m due to _bleed."_  

“But then…” He looked up at her. Then he pulled her to him in a tight embrace. “Sansa…”

Her stomach sank. “Did you think I had lovers?” 

“Lovers…” He pulled away and rubbed his temple. “I wouldn’t care about that, Sansa. No… But I thought… I thought you’d been forced.”

“Petyr Baelish almost did,” Sansa admitted, “But he had to keep me a maid until I could marry Harrold Hardyng. Fortunately, he died before that could ever happen.” _The Royces took care of that._ But she’d promised Lord Nestor long ago that that matter would remain a secret. 

“And as for---?” 

“—He never got more than a few kisses,” Sansa interrupted, unwilling to say his name in her bedchamber. Not now. Not when she’d just experienced something loving and pleasurable and intimate. She wanted to forget him, just for a few hours.  And it was the truth he hadn’t ever tried to force himself on her, though he did come close to taking her to his bed. She shuddered. “That is not what prompted our wedding.”

Jon looked at her with some measure of relief. “But then… Why all of this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a non-linear prologue. The next chapter will jump back in time to Sansa's arrival at the Red Keep.


	2. Winter Comes to Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteenth months before the royal wedding, Sansa Stark arrives at court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, a note about this chapter. I've dated it, and it takes place about sixteenth months before the prologue.
> 
> Chapter co-written with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)

**Seventh Day of the Eighth Moon, 304 AL**

**Sansa:**

_I hate men._  

Since her departure from Winterfell that thought went through her head with increasing regularity as more smiling, flirtatious Northern heirs added themselves to her honor guard.

When she wrote to Tyrion asking him to finally proceed with their annulment so they could move on with their lives, she’d not expected that she’d be asked to return to the capital. _The new High Septon is throwing his weight around. I may need you here._

So she departed, and it didn’t take long for word to spread that after five long years, Lady Sansa was returning to King’s Landing, or that Lord Tyrion had taken multiple meetings with the Faith. Everyone knew the marriage wasn’t consummated. There could only be one reason the Lord of Winterfell’s sister was making her back to that thrice-damned hellhole known as King’s Landing after what she’d suffered there. 

The time had come for the Winter Rose of House Stark to finally be plucked. The hard winter years had taught the Houses of the North not to waste opportunities.

Thus, her retinue gradually expanded to a ridiculous size. 

At first, it was somewhat flattering. Sansa did look forward to being courted and charmed again. Spring had come, and she felt it a good time to try to recapture the maidenhood she’d lost to schemes, war, and cold. Everyone lost their youth in the past years. Perhaps they could find it in spring.  When she guested at castles, she enjoyed being feasted and flirted with, and she was flattered when young lords volunteered to ride escort.

But then the fights over who would help her off her horse or sit next to her at camp meals broke out. And Sansa wondered how these young men could possibly be the same people who fought for her and her brothers.

Sansa eyed the gates of the city with trepidation. Once, she’d greeted those same gates with excitement and joy, eager to start her life and start her marriage. Now she was coming to restart her life and end her marriage. _It’s not the same. It’s not the same,_ she promised herself. _You’re not going in blind this time._

Still, there was reason to be cautious regardless of bad memories. It was said that the Prince of Dorne was close with his cousin the king, Elia Martell’s son. The Martells had little to no reason to love the Starks, nor did the Targaryens. Despite Jon’s revealed parentage and the sentiments of peace expressed on both sides, Sansa couldn’t be sure how warmly she might be received. 

It was said that the queen once referred to the Starks as “the usurper’s dogs” and that she vowed vengeance on all who had played a part in Robert’s Rebellion. Those feelings clearly had chilled, but that didn’t make the Starks beloved of the crown. Jon’s bloodlines were likely the only reason the queen didn’t make good on her threats. 

While reports claimed that the queen was quite fond of her nephew, Sansa wasn’t sure that affection extended very far. Jon saved Daenerys’s life battling the Night’s King, but when the royal party briefly visited Winterfell on their way back to the capital, the woman was withdrawn and intimidating. Of Aegon, Sansa knew little to nothing, aside from his somewhat tense relationship with the queen and warm friendship with the Prince of Dorne.

Sansa couldn’t even be sure her link with Jon counted for very much. Things between the two were… uncomfortable. No open antagonism existed, but their correspondence always erred on the side of polite formality.

When living in the Vale, Sansa had dreamt of seeing her half-brother again, imagining how sweet it would be. As it always happened with her fantasies, the reality proved disappointing.

The first time she saw him again was after the Others were vanquished, when the queen and her army were making their way back to the capital to establish their rule once and for all. At the time, Bran was still thought to be dead and Rickon was a small child who was already showing signs of madness. Everything--- the reconstruction, sheltering the cold and hungry in the face of winter, tending to the wounded, accommodating the royal retinue---- fell to her. She spent her days running back and forth, trying to keep as many people from dying as possible, and had little to no time for heart to hearts. 

Even if she did, Jon came back from the Wall as changed as everyone else. Before, he’d been a gentle, somewhat sullen young boy with dreams of heroism. Now there was a man with a character as changed as his name. Jon was not just sullen or quiet, he seemed completely withdrawn, full of anger, and almost mute. He’d scared her.

Strangely enough, when he was at his worst was when they’d best connected during that fortnight at Winterfell.

It was on the third day after his arrival. Sansa was in the hall, looking over bread rations, when one of her men came in, panicked, and told her the prince was attacking people.

Sansa ran out to the training yard to find her former half-brother furiously lashing out at the men around him. Finally, three of Daenerys’s Unsullied jumped on him, wrestling him to the ground, and began restraining him.

Jon looked up, and Sansa saw it. It was the same odd, dazed look she’d seen before. He wasn’t just attacking people. He had no idea where he was. He was terrified. He couldn’t control himself.

“Stop! Stop it!” She commanded, running forward. She couldn’t let them gag him.

She’d seen a hundred fits from Robert Arryn. One day, at the Gates of the Moon, she came back from a ride to learn that he’d gone into one of his fits, but he’d been restrained. When she found him, he’d dislocated a shoulder and broken an ankle trying to free himself from his restraints, and nearly choked on his own vomit. He barely survived. 

Sansa couldn’t let them do that to Jon. So she hurried over and had the men simply hold Jon still and upright. Her cousin struggled and screamed, but he was held down. Sansa came forward and, as gently as she could, mimicked her handling of the little Lord of the Eyrie. She cupped his face, shushed him, and began speaking. 

“Come now, Jon, it’s just me. It is just Sansa. You’re safe. You’re fine.” Then she began to sing.

Jon had struggled a little more, but tired himself out. He began to relax. Sansa had them men let him go, and her cousin sank to the muddy ground. Sansa gently moved him onto his side, then laid down next to him, facing him, still singing and talking.

Eventually, he seemed calm enough to be led back to his chambers. Sansa was called away to attend to another matter, and pulled herself out of the mud. 

A few more incidents like that occurred. Each more or less ended the same way. And each time, Sansa had to leave his side before he became completely lucid.

The matter was never spoken of, and Sansa was sure Jon had no idea. He’d been evasive and awkward when she came to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the Iron Throne, and she barely saw him.

Sansa had hoped to repair things when Bran returned and Jon came to visit the castle again. But then she was called away on urgent business to the Rills after a miserable fire had ruined the new dock they were constructing. It was an important point in her regency of the North, as it consisted of a game of hardball with the Ironborn that involved a half-mad Victarion Greyjoy and resulted in her finally hammering out the deal with Lady Asha that effectively ended raids above the Neck. Still, by the time she’d returned, Jon had to return the very next day to the capital.

Since then, there were only polite letters containing far less personal warmth than what Bran received. Likely, her cousin thought that she didn’t care, or that she had no interest in forming a bond. Or perhaps he had none.

The relationship between them had to improve, though, and Sansa was willing to do whatever it took. She owed it to the North and to herself.

Friends in King’s Landing were needed.

Daven Cerwyn rode by her side today as they approached the gates of King’s Landing. He was tall, blond, and attractive, if a bit temperamental. As they got closer to the gates, his brown eyes narrowed. “Will they meet you within the gates or just outside them?”

“Within them, most likely,” Sansa assured him.

She could feel Sandor’s eyes on her from his mount a few yards back. He’d appeared, like a ghost a week before on the Kingsroad and seemed to almost remain as one, despite his considerable physical presence. “I should have taken you last time, Little Bird,” he had told her in what was near a whisper. “I should have never left you to the dwarf. I didn’t spend the last several years in penance just to make that mistake again.”

He kept his Brother’s hood and robes, chain mail underneath and dirks hidden withint the cuffs of his bell sleeves. His scarred face was so covered that likely none would recognize him. He seemed to wish to keep it that way, though he still managed to attract attention. Sansa questioned her decision to accept his aid every day. Every time she looked at him, she shivered and wondered which of them needed the other more. Clegane was strong, to be sure, and she didn’t question his devotion. But she still got the feeling that this was more about his needs than hers. After all, she had a small army with her.

Still, there was a comfort to have the man who had tried to warn her so often among her retinue. _I am not going in alone or blind. Neither of us are the same people we were, but we both know what this place is. And he’s not the only one._

At Sansa’s other side, Jeyne Poole rode, her face visibly pale, but her shoulders square and her expression resolute. _She doesn’t even flinch, after what they did to her._ Over the trip, her friend gained many a disgusted look over her ruined nose. Jeyne gritted her teeth all the way to the city. Sansa almost left her behind at Winterfell when arranging her household for the trip, afraid of the cruel japes she might receive. 

When she’d mentioned this, her friend merely scoffed. “They couldn’t possibly say anything worse than what they actually did to me.” 

The sort of thinking Sansa needed around her. The similarities between Jeyne and Sandor didn’t begin and end with disfigurement. These two _knew_ what awaited them within this city. They’d both warned her--- Sandor in his menacing manner after the tourney and then with Joffrey, and Jeyne sobbing in their shared bed after the Lannisters took Sansa’s father captive. Both had suffered at the hands of some of the worst monsters imaginable. Both had no inclination to betray her. Both made her feel stronger. 

The gates opened, and banners were there, but not the banners Sansa had expected. A Lannister one stood over a little draped in gold cloth. There was a Targaryen banner too, of sorts. Only the red dragon was joined by a white direwolf against the black background--- the sigil of her cousin.

Her heart sank, and she and Jeyne exchanged glances. Her friend’s eyes narrowed.

“Daven and the others will be furious,” Sansa remarked glumly.  _And they will be only too pleased to prove their devotion by making a show of taking offense._

“I’m not happy about it either,” Jeyne said. “You are to be one of the Queen’s Ladies.  _She_ should be here to greet you, at the very least. This is a slap in the face.”

Her heart sank. It wasn’t just her escort; the north would not be pleased about this.  And to be fair, nor was she. _At least Queen Cersei pretended to show me some courtesy in the beginning._

Sansa wasn’t a lord paramount in her own right, but she was the unofficial Lady of Winterfell. And as much of a sham as her marriage was, she was wife to the Hand of the King. She had claims to both great names of Stark and Lannister, and was connected by blood to House Arryn and Targaryen.

It seemed the affections Jon enjoyed truly didn’t extend very far. _It’s worse than I thought._ Perhaps Aegon and Daenerys saw the annulment from Tyrion as an insult as well. Her husband gave no indication that he minded--- indeed, he seemed as enthusiastic as she was to end their marriage at last. Perhaps Aegon and Daenerys saw it differently.

 _Six years ago, I rode into King’s Landing with the royal procession as a future queen. Now I don’t even get a proper royal greeting._ No doubt the others a court would use this as an indicator of how they should treat her.  _I haven’t even entered the Keep and already I’m undermined._

That Jon would allow such an insult didn’t bode well for their relationship, either. Sansa didn’t intend to have her cousin’s disdain for her displayed for all of her men to see. She called for them to stay back a bit, then rode on ahead.

 _I’ll smile and act as if nothing is amiss. I’m good at that._ She’d act like her eagerness was over seeing Jon’s face again. Hopefully that might warm him to her. Bran once joked that she could charm a wight. _Jon shouldn’t be that much more difficult._

But first, of course, came her husband. Tyrion hobbled out of his litter as Sansa came through the gates. At four-and-thirty, his hair was already beginning to thin. As he got out, his squire handed him a short lacquered stick with a gold and ruby lion’s handle. He limped somewhat as he came forward, and half of his face--- the green-eyed half--- twitched. He walked up to Sansa’s chestnut palfrey and looked up at her in her saddle. “Greetings, Little Wife. Welcome back to our capital.”

Sansa hesitated to dismount, not wishing to accidentally kick her husband or give him a view up her skirts--- the day was windy. Before she could respond, though, she was interrupted by a dark-haired young man hurrying over. “Cousin! Let me help you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she looked down at Jon, reaching towards her eagerly. Her cousin appeared much improved since she last saw him. His color was better, his eyes a little brighter. He even smiled slightly, and he nodded a greeting to Jeyne.

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” she said softly, letting him help her dismount. She curtsied to both him and her husband. “My Lord, thank you for your welcome. I could not ask for a kinder one.”

“You could, you did, and you should,” Tyrion said shortly, wincing as he shifted his weight. “The king or queen should have come out to meet you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon told her, sounding a bit irritated, though Sansa sensed it wasn’t directed at her. “I told them---- Well, I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”

 _You know I’m not Arya, right?_ He had to. He’d spent his last two visits to Winterfell weeping at her tomb. _Oh Gods, maybe he’s gone as mad as Rickon._ Rickon sometimes called her ‘Osha’ or ‘Meera.’ But Sansa smiled at him. “I’ve missed you too, Brother.”

Now he truly smiled and embraced her.

 _Yes, he’s truly gone mad._ But Sansa didn’t mind the embrace so much. Jon hugged her the way Bran did.

“I apologize for the poor reception,” Tyrion cut in, looking antsy. “The queen left this morning on Drogon’s back to attend some pressing matter within flying distance, and has yet to return. His Grace was holding court when we left. I’m sure he’ll receive you warmly in the throne room.”

“I tried to tell them,” Jon told her sheepishly. “Daenerys said she’d be back by the time you arrived. Aegon felt the matters of petition were pressing.”

“Gods above,” her husband marveled then, staring off towards the gates. “Just how many men did you bring?”

“I had… many volunteers to guard me,” Sansa said, blushing. “I know you can’t house them all in the tower---“

“Not my concern. Jon has arranged for you to be stationed in Maegor’s Holdfast anyways,” Tyrion snapped. He looked more nervous by the second. The Northern men riding in, obviously displeased, exacerbated this. 

“Seven Hells,” Tyrion muttered. He rolled his eyes and went to kiss Sansa’s hand again. “My lady, we must proceed. There is a litter provided for you, if you wish for it. We must proceed for the keep if we want one of those damned dragons to greet you before your guards decide to begin a riot over your honor. I would make pleasantries, but I’m a busy man. After you’ve settled in, you may call on me at the tower at any time to discuss our affairs. But I don’t have time to make nice with a bunch of rowdy Northmen who are predisposed to hate me already. I apologize for the reception, but I am not a dragon tamer.” 

He looked sharply at Jon. “You. These are your people. Keep them happy. Think of it as practice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to try and keep any other disasters from erupting. You wanted to attend this one, so you may clean it up. Pardons, my lady.”

He marched back to his litter and shut the curtains, giving an order to be brought back. Jeyne gaped after him and wrinkled what was left of her nose.

Jon reddened. “I’m so sorry. This… Don’t blame Tyrion. Believe it or not, he really is this busy. I wanted to make the arrangements for your visit and your reception. Getting Aegon and Daenerys here was my responsibility. And, well, he’s very nervous around crowds. In fact, he can’t last too long in them without having a panic attack without the company of Lady Ly---“

Her cousin paused then, looking embarrassed.

“Lyria?” Sansa replied, smiling softly. “It’s alright, Jon.”

“You should know, the lady has offered to vacate the tower during your stay if you’d prefer to reside there.”

“That’s generous of her, but I wouldn’t want to be such a disruption.” Sansa felt no animosity towards her husband’s mistress. Indeed, she felt a little guilty in regards to her.

Lady Lyria was the widow of a merchant prince of Braavos and the ambassador for the Free Cities to Westeros, known for her wealth and strong anti-slavery stance. By all accounts, the Hand of the King found a great deal of happiness and comfort with the woman. _She’s more his wife than I. She deserves that place._ Sansa didn’t like the idea of intruding in such a manner.

He smiled and nodded, then paused to greet her companions, all of whom greeted Jon with an icy glare.

“How kind of the King and Queen to send their nephew to greet the trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, who is cousin of the prince and the Lord of the Eyrie, sister to the Lord of Winterfell, wife of the Hand of the King, niece of the Lord of Riverrun,” Daven sneered, “Lady of Casterly Rock and Acting Lady of Winterfell. Truly, they do her great honor.”

“I assure her, they’ll show her even greater honors once we arrive at the Keep, they eagerly await her,” Jon assured him.

He looked at her. “Would you like to ride or take a litter, My Lady?”

Sansa glanced at Jeyne. A litter might shield her companion from the stares of others, but there seemed to be only room for one. Despite her refusal to admit it, looks did bother her, and Sansa knew just how vicious the crowds could be.

“I shall ride. But if Jeyne might make use of the litter?”

He nodded and helped her friend into the lift. Jeyne pulled the curtains closed after winking gratefully at her friend. Once she was in the air, Jon helped Sansa onto her horse before falling into place beside her. “How are Bran and Rickon?”

“Bran is quite well. Rickon… hasn’t changed.” Sansa squirmed. She didn’t like speaking of her youngest brother outside Winterfell’s walls. She wanted to keep hope alive that someday, whatever plagued his poor mind would leave. That hope died a little with every passing day. 

She felt guilty leaving him. She wouldn’t have come if Bran hadn’t assured her that she was needed more in the capital than she was at Winterfell. 

“He’s not going to get any better with you here. He still thinks you’re Osha. Sansa, you must go.” 

Bran said this to her in that way he reserved for when he was speaking in accordance to his visions. Her brother never stated things outright when greenseeing came into play, but he’d also never set her on an unwise path. Sansa and her brother were a team, and she trusted him. Still, many nights on the road, she wept, thinking of her ten year old brother lying with Shaggydog in their rooms, calling out for her. When she’d left, they had to chain up the direwolf so it didn’t follow her. It broke her heart.

Jon had the good sense not to press the matter. “I’m sorry about this,” he told her once more, “Daenerys took off, and she loses track of time when she flies. And Aegon is stubborn. He takes holding court very seriously. But I promise you, you’ll be welcome and honored at court.”

“You are too kind, Cousin.”

“I’ll make sure your household is provided for as well. Whatever else you need… Tell me.”

“I’m sure it shall be lovely. Now, tell me, how are you?”

The held each other’s gaze for a long time. Jon hesitated.

“I’m… well, My Lady.” He looked like he meant to say something more, but held it back.

Sansa’s heart sank. Aside from him simply not remembering what transpired, she’d come up with another theory as to why Jon never spoke of the incident: he was ashamed. Getting down in the mud with him was hardly a proper act, and she’d coddled him like a babe in front of half the people at Winterfell. Perhaps she’d humiliated him with her actions.

She looked away then. “That is good. You have been in my prayers.”

“I thank you.”

His manners were easy and gentle, for Jon at least. Despite herself, Sansa began to relax and found herself looking forward to arriving at the Red Keep. _It’ll be different this time,_ she assured herself, _this time, I’ll be treated kindly. And if I’m not…_

She glanced behind her again. Sandor hung back just a bit, his eyes shining out from under his hood. _If I appeared to be in danger, he’d know._

~_~_~_~_~_~

**Tyrion:**

 

Not two seconds after he arrived back in the Red Keep, Edric Storm and Mace Tyrell had to meet with him about pier repairs. The Hand of the King almost told the Masters of Ships and Coin to go fuck themselves, for after venturing out into the crowds, Tyrion was shaking. He wanted Lyria. He wanted enough wine to wash the dirty looks of the Northern lordlings from his mind. He wanted to bury his head between big, soft breasts where he didn’t have to listen to anyone question him about trade negotiations or stare at him with revolted eyes.

But the piers and shipyards of King’s Landing couldn’t be neglected, and after years of Wildling raids, maintaining a decent fleet was as important as ever.

Luckily enough, the blithering oaf Mace Tyrell had managed to create such a problem locating the cost estimates that it was enough work to take Tyrion’s mind off the North and the crowds for a couple of hours. Not as pleasant as his mistress’s bosom, but there was some humor to be found in watching the lord of Highgarden bluster with apologies.

As Tyrion walked out of the council chamber, he made a mental note to extend a dinner invitation to Margaery Tyrell. No doubt the Maid of Highgarden knew where the papers were.

 _She probably even has the damn sums memorized._ He didn’t like having another person’s puppet on the council. It made everything slower. Olenna Tyrell was gone, Margaery had taken her place, and aside from Willas the heir, the Tyrells were not willing to go away quietly. _The Little Rose could probably do with another reminder that she’s not a queen anymore._

Unfortunately, he needed her. Without Margaery, Mace Tyrell would actually be Master of Coin in practice as well as in name, and that couldn’t happen. _All the gold of Casterly Rock wouldn’t be enough to fix our debts if we left that oaf to control things._ No matter how many letters Tyrion sent to the man’s sons to come and take his place, he got constant rejections.

 _Damn you, Cersei,_ he thought for the fortieth time that day. He blamed her for Garlan and Willas Tyrell’s continuous refusals to leave their homes. After Cersei’s foolish plotting, the ever-ambitious Margaery was the only one with the nerve and motivation to come to the Red Keep, despite being the primary target of the former queen’s plots. Willas and Garlan, meanwhile, took one look at what happened to Loras and resolved never to involve themselves in national politics again. They lacked the ambition of their father and sister. Tyrion couldn’t blame them, but he could blame his sister. He generally liked doing that as much as possible. It was easy. 

And there was some hilarious irony of it all. _Cersei did all that work to keep Margaery out of power, and all it has resulted in is the girl having her fingers constantly in the crown’s purse._

He needed to handle the problem swiftly, though. Enough problems existed on the horizon without having some matter about paying for dock repairs exploding into some bigger issue. 

 _And it appears there’s already another issue willing to do that,_ he observed as he made his way through the halls. 

Too many Northern sigils were present within the red keep: symbols of Houses engraved on leather, embroidered on cloaks, molded into clothing clips. Whenever he passed a man with one, inevitably he’d receive a filthy look. It reminded him unpleasantly of the city dwellers from Joffrey’s day. _I didn’t issue that damn whore tax. I didn’t kill Joffrey. I am not the one who neglected to greet the North’s favorite daughter. For once, can I be resented for something I’m actually at fault for?_

The Hand of the King tried to ignore the pain in his hip and limped faster towards the Tower of the Hand, the end of his cane tapping along the stone ground with a manic sound and pace. _Please let her things still be there._

Lyra packed up her belongings and prepared a wagon to take them to a city manse just in case Sansa chose to invoke her rights as Lady Lannister and reside within the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion didn’t think his little wife would: their relationship was strained and neither of them wanted to do anything that would encourage anyone to view them as truly wed.

Jon had taken care to arrange for fine apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast for the Stark girl. But Lyria wanted to be safe. As the date of Sansa’s arrival came closer, Tyrion became more nervous that the girl might defy his expectations.

She ended up defying expectations, just not in the manner he feared. Instead of moving herself into his residence, she’d come with a retinue of highborn Northern bachelors large enough to fill the tower on their own. All of them were young, hearty men who were strong enough to make it through a war-torn Northern winter and strongly invested in the welfare and maidenhead of the last daughter of Winterfell.

_A small army of potential suitors, all killers eager to prove themselves more devoted and protective of her than the others. All of them with plenty of reasons to hate the court and the Lannisters._

Of all the people to presentTyrion with a situation similar to the one he’d faced when Oberyn Martell came to Dorne, the last one he’d expected was Sansa Stark. And the king and queen already failed to greet her. No doubt the brawls would commence. _Winter Roses should not take after Red Vipers,_ Tyrion thought sourly.

He just hoped Jon managed to get her settled in and properly received. _I have enough problems._

When he stepped inside the tower, he found to his relief that Lyria’s beloved Essossian paintings and sculptures were restored to their former places around the halls and parlors. She’d not been run out. Tyrion smiled for the first time that day and mounted the steps to his solar. Knowing what was likely waiting for him made mounting the steps far more tolerable. 

His mistress, tall, curvy, distinguished, reclined on the sofa by window. Her thick dark hair was pulled into a large bun, Myrish lenses decorated her face, and she clutched a book in her hand. She pretended not to notice when he came in, but he saw her lip curl slightly.

The Hand of the King limped towards her and bent over to peer at the title of the volume. “ _Small Tales of the Age of Heroes_ ,” he read aloud, “A surprising choice.”

“Why? I like small things. Small tales, small cakes, small men… Big women like me need some small things in our lives to balance them out.” She lowered the book and ruffled what was left of his hair. “How are you, My Love? What troubles have you tumbled into today?” 

Tyrion climbed into her lap and took a deep breath. Few things calmed him like the softness of her body or the spicy scent that clung to her coppery skin. Or when she called him her tumbler, her acrobat, her Master of Revels.

When they first met, before his hip was ruined, it was in the garden of a Meereenese Manse. Tyrion, pent up with nervous energy and more or less cooped up, began practicing some of the acrobatics that had been taught in his youth to relieve some stress. Doing things like somersaults or walking on his hands at that point in his life gave him a therapeutic feeling of rebellion, knowing he was defying his cursed father. But after being forced to ride a pig for the amusement of slavers, he hated for anyone to see him doing it.

Lyria had found him tumbling that night. And when he realized it, a murderous rage began to build up in him. _I cartwheel and tumble for myself, not you. I am not here to make you laugh, Woman._

But when he looked into her eyes, he didn’t see the crude, exploitative, mocking, or even pitying gazes he received from most audiences. Her expression was instead a mix of delight, admiration, and fascination. From that point on until his hip was damaged by a Qartheen spear, he only flipped and tumbled for her. He missed that physical talent terribly, it had been one of the few he’d possessed. But Lyria calling him her tumbler reminded him of how he’d made a woman truly smile without gold or ill-intent. After ‘My Lion’ and ‘Giant of Lannister’ had been so poisoned, having that sort of pet name was a comfort.

Sometimes, on a good day, he still walked on his hands. But only for her.

“Well, you know my lady wife has arrived,” he informed her, leaning his head back in the pillow of her breasts. “She’s brought a small army of angry Northerners with her, and our beloved monarchs have already managed to snub them all. The king and queen got into an explosive fight this morning that result in Daenerys taking off with Drogon. Margaery Tyrell is hiding cost estimates behind her father’s idiocy. And Trystane Martell still breathes.”

He said that last one with an even jolt of bitterness. He mentioned it only on his worst days, but it never ceased to bother him.

Lyria’s arms closed around him even more tightly.

“Hush!” She snapped, her dark eyes glancing around, “I won’t have you getting yourself killed with that manner of talk.”

 Tyrion swallowed and changed the subject.

“Well, we’ll be hosting the Maid of Highgarden for dinner soon.”

“…And your Lady Wife?”

He cringed. “I won’t make you have dinner with her.”

“I want to, though. I want to know this girl you married. I saw her making her way into the Keep. Yakaroh would love her.”

Yakaroh was one of Lyria’s Braavosi artist friends, a eunuch and portraitist obsessed with famous women and elemental themes. Needless to say, he considered Daenerys a muse. But he also had a fascination with redheads ever since hearing of how Wildlings considered such people “kissed by fire.”

Tyrion shrugged. He liked Yakaroh, who had gifted Tyrion on his last name day with a very personal rendering of his mistress that proved one of the best presents the Hand ever received. “Write to him. That ought to occupy her a bit. I can make the painting a sweet little parting gift.” 

“Art makes for the finest sort of peace offering.” That was a piece of advice she’d offered him numerous times, among others. She seemed pleased he was remembering it. “Now what is this about the king and queen snubbing her?”

“They didn’t meet her at the City Gates. It’s considered common courtesy for someone as highborn as her. And yet it was just me and her royal cousin who were there. She was snubbed.”

Lyria scowled. “Let me guess, Northerners are considered to be ‘not one of you’ as well.”

His mistress hated the attitude of most of the court towards those perceived as “different”--- foreigners, lowborn folk, people like him. Lyria was Meereenese by birth and grew up to despise the stratified society that raised her, and later, once she’d traveled a bit, with the world in general. She considered Westeros particularly hostile in this regard. She’d been thoroughly disappointed by the attitudes of even anti-slave countries like Westeros and potential liberators like Daenerys, but still devoted much thought, time, and anger, to trying to rectify these matters.

Tyrion shook his head. “Every region has their own distinct flavor, the North especially so, but no. It has less to do with being of the North and likely more to do with her being a Stark.” 

Lyria rolled her eyes. She knew the history. “So some child is being insulted because of something that happened before she was even born. Lovely. Does she hate you?” 

The Hand hesitated. “If she still does, she’s good at hiding it.” Her letters were kind, but their personal interaction was brief by his own design and he imagined that it was something his wife appreciated. “I think the years may have softened some old resentments. But she’s afraid of me. But I doubt she’ll try to do me harm. I’ve made it clear to her that I want an annulment, and I have done nothing to antagonize her or her family. I believe she may have come to accept that I played no part in the deaths of her family. Her brother Bran knows I didn’t, he’s spoken on my behalf, and by all reports she trusts him. And Sansa never had much of a drive for vengeance. She’s not a Martell. She’s not her mother.”

“Still, keep an eye on her. And be kind.”

“Of course!” Tyrion acted outraged, “I am nothing if not the soul of kindness.” _For a member of my family, anyways._

“I mean it, Tyrion,” Lyria told him with a suspicious look, “Truly, be kind. That chain of office doesn’t make you invincible. You say she was a sweet girl. I was a sweet girl once. Sweet girls can change. But if she’s not a threat now, keep it that way. You may not have played a direct hand in what happened to her family, but you did work for the people that did. If she doesn’t wish you harm, don’t give her a reason to. Mind your tongue.” 

“Yes, My Lady.”

As he began to relax, there was a knock on the door. Dareon Swyft, his squire, entered. “The queen has returned, My Lord.”

Tyrion groaned and Lyria handed him his cane.

When he found the Mother of Dragons in the throne room, she was already being attended by her nephew. The Lord of Casterly Rock felt his stomach sink. The boy once known as Jon Snow rarely ever looked truly happy, but he seemed particularly agitated now.

“It was utterly humiliating! He was playing _cyvasse!_ ”

_Oh Gods no._

Daenerys cradled her temple, apparently feeling exactly the same way.

“So… Let me get this straight… The heirs to half the holdfasts north of the Neck are ready to riot and your cousin has been horribly shamed… all because of a greeting?” She looked up again, eyes wide in exasperation. “Or lack thereof?”

Tyrion hurried over. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, that this _is_ considered a great slight. Especially if King Aegon failed to formally receive Lady Stark once she made it to the Keep. My Lady Wife is descended from to of the oldest names in Westeros, married to a third, and connected by blood to two more, including your own. By title, she is Lady of Casterly Rock and in practice Lady of Winterfell. She’s the last daughter of House Stark. A lack of royal greeting would be considered an insult to her, to the North… And possibly every House she’s connected to. The Northerners are… understandably sensitive about how the capital treats her.” 

Tyrion fought the urge to go find Aegon and slap him the way he once slapped Joffrey. _You shit. You couldn’t sit on that damn metal chair for an extra five minutes and kiss her hand?_ The king had been holding court when he and Jon had left the castle.

Daenerys groaned. “And Aegon was playing cyvasse?”

“With Trystane,” confirmed Jon. Tyrion felt his blood boil. _Of fucking course._ The king was almost as attached to his Martell cousin as Daenerys was to her dragons.

“What was the response?” She asked.

“Sansa went to wash and change, then I brought her to Aegon’s parlor. He greeted her there. Privately. Trystane and I were the only witnesses.”

Tyrion spoke up then. “So of course, by now the entire court will know that Sansa Stark is out of favor enough to be slighted this way, and they will all follow suit.”

_Just what I need. And the next person to slight her will incite a brawl. The Northmen won’t be afraid to strike some random lordling._

The prince’s eyes flashed. “Exactly.”

The clear relief and exhilaration that the queen had gotten from her ride visibly died. _Yes, Your Grace,_ the Hand thought, _it doesn’t really end._ Her violet eyes seemed to dim. “Jon--- I didn’t mean---! I’m sorry.” 

The good thing about Daenerys was her willingness to address things at once. Unlike her husband, she had a good dose of humility, especially after Slaver’s Bay

Not wishing to hear the prince sulk, the Hand interrupted. “Where is Lady Sansa now?”

“She’s taking a walk in the royal gardens,” replied the prince.

Daenerys pulled off her riding gloves. “Let me wash my face and change into a decent gown. I’ll go make a big show of welcoming her.”

“Invite her to pick lemons in your private orchard with you when you do,” Tyrion offered, remembering a bit of trivia from his days as a newlywed, “She likes them almost as much as you do. Hopefully, she won’t prove too offended to accept.”

He didn’t think she would be. If there was one thing Sansa Stark had learned during her years as his sister’s prisoner, it was how to take slights.

“Good. I’ll do that. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll offer her my husband’s head as well.” Dany marched out of the room then, gesturing for them to follow her. _She’s joking,_ Tyrion assured himself as he waddled out the door. _She’s made threats to kill Aegon how many times now?_ Still, Targaryens had a way of saying things with such fire, and Daenerys had made good on other, seemingly ridiculous promises before. The king and queen bounced between passionate love and anger with disturbing regularity.

The queen did change quickly and headed out to the gardens. Tyrion groaned as the three of them searched the hedges and flowerbeds for the daughter of the North. _Why couldn’t she have stayed in her chambers so we didn’t have to search for her?_

This was everything he hated about a political problem: petty, dangerous, and incredibly stupid. _Short of Aegon reaching down Sansa’s bodice on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor while making jokes about dead direwolves, I don’t see how this could possibly get any worse._

Also, his leg hurt, giving him little patience for this nonsense. The opulent spring blooms seemed to mock him.

In preparation for Sansa’s visit, he’d done everything to make sure they had to have as little contact as possible. Things between them were awkward enough when their communication was confined to ravens. It now appeared that he might have to pay more attention to her concerns than he’d originally thought. 

 _Just more children I have to look after,_ he thought impatiently. That wasn’t entirely fair, of course. But it was hard to keep all of his monarchs’ very adult triumphs in mind at times like these. _Well, at least this child doesn’t have a crown._

They heard laughter nearby and turned a corner around one of the giant rosebushes.

His wife sat on a stone bench with a bouquet of impeccably arranged blossoms in her lap. Throwing her head back as she chuckled. Tyrion tried to ignore the way her bosom quivered or the elegant arch of her neck as she laughed. By her side, speaking softly and smiling at her, was Trystane Martell, Prince of Dorne.

A cold shiver went down the Hand’s spine. _I am dead. I am dead and this is the Seventh Hell._


	3. Awkwardness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys picks some fruit with two Northern girls. Jon has a meeting in the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Chapter co-written with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)

Chapter Two: Awkwardness

Daenerys:

In the three days Lady Sansa had been in residence at the Red Keep, Daenerys had seen almost nothing of the woman. The Queen had been occupied with finding space for the woman’s massive honour guard of young lordlings, her smaller compliment of ladies, and all the retinues of guards, minstrels, servants, cooks, wagondrivers that the northern nobility had seen fit to bring on the journey.  Even her hawks, of which Lady Sansa had three magnificent birds, had their own attendants: six hawkers.  The Red Keep was inundated. 

And all of the Queen’s new guests were gleefully taking offense on the lady’s behalf. 

Lady Sansa herself had been exceedingly gracious about the situation, but there had been a fixed quality to her smile. The lemon-picking invitation had thawed that ice a bit, but the idea had been thwarted by a sudden cloudburst that had sent them all scurrying back into the Keep. 

Dany thanked the Gods for Trystane Martell, who had made a show of welcoming the Lady and dancing attendance on her. The handsome young Dornish prince – so different from his ill-fated brother Quentyn – had given the northern lords something new to worry about.  Dany had to admit a certain petty satisfaction at the looks of dismay on the suitors’ faces when Sansa had walked back into the keep on Tystane’s arm, laughing as he spoke softly into her ear. 

 _Today must go well_. It was the first day that the ground had been dry enough for them to venture into the orchard. She had gone out personally that morning to ensure that the lemon collecting baskets were in place, decorated with ribbons, and that the pavilion with a table of refreshments was well-stocked. It was all very lovely and impractical, and Dany had been assured that it was suitable for entertaining a noblewoman of the highest birth. 

_I would rather be eating meat off the bone, smoke in my hair and my dragons by my side._

She loved her lemons and picking them. But she generally didn’t much care for making a game out of it for a stranger. Her orchard was among her most private, intimate comforts. Having courtly matters invade it seemed so very wrong.

 _If I were in my Dothraki leathers, no one would expect me to observe fluffy courtesies._ Instead she peered at herself in the silver-backed mirror, and adjusted the neckline of her dress.  It was wool, to keep out the spring chill, but beautifully embroidered in red and black.  Dany looked at herself and saw the image of a perfect Westerosi Queen.

“I have exchanged one set of floppy ears for another,” she said out loud.  _Westeros was supposed to be my home, but I feel as much a stranger here as I did in Meereen._

In the reflection, she saw a hand trace the curve of her ear.  “I don’t think your ears are floppy at all,” Aegon said.  “In fact, I think they are beautiful.”  His lips followed his hand, and she gasped as his kisses moved down her neck.  He reached from behind to cup her breasts, squeezing the nipples through the thick woollen fabric.  “I think all of you is beautiful.”

“Aegon, I need to go,” Dany said. But she found herself leaning into his touch. 

“Let the wolf-girl wait,” he whispered, pulling her against him.  “I need my wife.  Desperately. Madly.”

Daenerys broke free, and Aegon groaned with disappointment.  “I must go,” she said.  “If the _Lady Sansa_ is snubbed again there could be blood.”

There near had been a day ago, when a knight in service to house Stokeworth had suggested that the son of house Cerwyn frequent the kennels if he was keen on fine bitches. A fight was only prevented by the unlikely intervention of a begging brother of the Seven who had come with Sansa’s retinue, who fortunately had been a fighting man before he turned to religion.  He had cursed the two young men roundly as he flung them apart.  Dany sent the man her personal thanks and a generous donation likely greater than he would get in a year of asking by the roadside.

“ … and she is not a ‘wolf girl’. She is the sister of one of our greatest vassals and _we_ have insulted her,” she emphasized the pronoun, “Now _I_ must make amends.”

Her husband ignored the implied rebuke.  “In the Free Cities, no-one worried so much about their blasted honours.”

Daenerys suppressed a smile of agreement. It would not do to encourage Aegon.  She was still annoyed with him for his part in the debacle of Sansa’s welcome.  And her husband had a knack for getting under her skin, both for well and ill.  She did not want to get into another fight. They’d only just made up from the last one. That reconciliation was so sweet and fresh, she didn’t really feel on souring it so soon.

Aegon was not a bad man, nor was he a bad ruler.  But where Dany had grown up with fear and poverty, Aegon had been cared for by Jon Connington and Septa Lemore as if he was their own son.  For all that he was two years her senior, she often felt that she was the adult in their union and he the young boy.  He had little caution, and more than a trace of arrogance.  Those qualities that she liked in bed made him difficult to rule with.  But for all that her third marriage was turbulent, as filled with anger as with passion, she and Aegon understood each other more than anyone else in this strange land they had come to rule.

“If you wanted to spend this afternoon fucking, then you should have paid more attention to your responsibilities three days ago.”  Daenerys said firmly, trying to keep calm. To his credit, her husband backed down somewhat, throwing his hands up in resignation. Daenerys felt her annoyance soften. 

“Shall I join you?” he asked softly. “It might serve as an even greater compliment. And if there’s anything I love doing, it’s picking your fruit.”  He wiggled his eyebrows and made as if to grab her breasts again.

That made her laugh. “Oh, I know. But no. I appreciate the offer,” she said with a smile, “but I would appreciate you attending to other matters even more. Such as the harvest celebration.”

Aegon was an emotional stranger to this land, but he had received better training in courtly manners than she had. The learning he’d received from Connington, Lemore, and his Half-Maester had its definite uses. It was what made him a good king when he wasn’t acting like a child.

“Yes, yes, leave me to the dull stuff, as usual,” he said with mock-resentment.

 _This is all dull stuff._ After years of dragon fire and Dothraki, of freeing slaves and fighting wights, fruit-picking with a refined noble girl didn’t really hold her imagination. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “Missandei and Tyrion will be with you. Spending time with them is never dull.”

She wasn’t sure if she could say the same for Sansa Stark. If she was half as quiet and morose as Jon, then Daenerys feared she might be in for a long afternoon. The dragon queen adored her nephew, but conversations with him had been a bit lacking before she really got to know him, and discovered his quick wit and well-hidden gift for mockery.  She didn’t know Lady Sansa at all.

It was a short walk to her orchard, which had been planted in a walled space not far from the Godswood. Smiling and waving to some of her attendants, the queen wandered through the yellow-fruited trees and inhaled. The image of that red door swam in her mind. When one of her maids told Daenerys that Lady Sansa was waiting at the gate, it was hard for Daenerys to pull herself back to duty.  

She found that the Lady had not come alone. Though Dany hadn’t seen much of the Maiden of Winterfell, she’d seen enough to not be surprised by the presence of that odd, noseless young woman who followed Lady Sansa like a shadow. Daenerys had heard the same of that begging brother -- wherever Lady Sansa was, they said, that tall brother was lurking nearby. But Daenerys saw no sign of him today. 

“Lady Stark!” Daenerys called out, opening the gate and extending her hand. Dany detected a twitch to the Stark attendant’s lips, but ignored it. “Welcome.”

The young woman curtsied and kissed her queen’s hand.  Dany found herself envying her grace.  The way she handled her heavy skirts as she bent made them look as light as a handful of flower petals. Dany knew differently. The queen found herself feeling grubby and ill-kept in comparison.  

“Your Grace, you do me too much honor. If it was your wish, you would be welcome to call me Sansa.”

“And I would have you call me by name too, Sansa,” she said with a wide smile on her face.  _Make sure your smile is visible to all the watching eyes. Every move each of us makes will be the talk of the Keep._   “Since you are to be among the foremost of my ladies.  I have been alone too long.  I want us to be friends.  Good friends.” _More importantly, I need us to be seen as good friends._

Allow me to present my companion of long standing, Jeyne Poole.”

Jeyne Poole’s mouth tightened as she curtsied. Dany looked at the young woman in surprise. So few ladies of the court would bother to introduce their maids. _But the surname…_ She didn’t know it, but the existence of one indicated some sort of birth above that of a common maid. 

The woman’s dress was simple, her dark hair caught in an unadorned net, but as Dany looked closer she realized that the woman’s plain appearance was misleading.  There was a glint of a costly jewelled ring on her hand and the fabric of her gown was as fine as Dany’s own.  _Lady Sansa is generous with her attendants._  

“Lady Jeyne. Forgive me, but I seem to have forgotten… Which proud Keep does your House hail from?”

“My father was steward of Winterfell, Your Grace.”

“I see. He must be a fine man to serve in such an esteemed position. Does he still serve in that capacity?”

Jeyne went quiet. Lady Sansa flinched. “I’m afraid Vayon is no longer with us, Your Grace.  But he was a very fine man, and he served my family well all his life.”

“Oh.” All of a sudden, the sunlight seemed to dim, and it had nothing to do with the weather. _His was not a peaceful death, either._ “My apologies, Lady Jeyne. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The young woman looked down at her feet.

Daenerys wanted to smack herself. Instead, she smiled softly and gestured to the stack of baskets nearby. “Shall we?”

She hurried over to the stack and picked up three, handing one to Sansa and extending the other to Jeyne. There was a moment of hesitation, and Jeyne and Sansa exchanged a look. 

“Your Grace, your courtesy is much appreciated, but I believe Jeyne would be happier resting from the heat,” Sansa said.  She took the basket Dany was holding out to Jeyne, and passed it to her friend.  “But Jeyne, if you could be ready with new baskets as we need them, I would be so pleased.”

Jeyne looked relieved, and took the basket from Sansa.  “Of course.”

Dany forced herself to keep the smile painted on her face.  She had clearly transgressed another unwritten rule of court etiquette. _So the Poole woman has the status to be presented to the Queen, but not to be included in the lemon picking.  Or perhaps the invitation having been extended to Sansa alone made it inappropriate._

 _Or perhaps the moon is moving through the constellation of the archer, and a green-eyed goat was seen drinking from a fountain containing a statue of an ox, and so of course everyone knows that people surnamed Poole cannot pick lemons today._  

Sansa looked around at the trees, their yellow fruit bright amongst the green leaves.  “This is extraordinary.  How did you manage it?”

“The trees are from the gardens of Sunspear.  They were a wedding gift from Trystane to Aegon and myself, after he learned that I loved lemons. He had the trees shipped in pots. It was the dead of winter.” Dany smiled at the memory. “We had to build special wagons draped in fabric to get them here from the harbour, and I was terrified that the frost would get to them the entire time.  We had a glass structure to protect them, heated with coals. They were only moved outdoors a few moons ago.”

“How lovely – and how kind of the Prince of Dorne.  I am fond of lemons, too,” Sansa said.  “When we could get them, lemoncakes were one of our favourite treats when we were girls at Winterfell, Jeyne and I.”

Daenerys took a breath. “I did not mean to cause your friend distress, when I asked about her father.”

Sansa spoke quietly, “You needn’t worry so much. That is one of the more sensitive questions Jeyne has had to answer. Thank you for not staring at her nose.”

Daenerys had seen worse than a frostbitten nose. Far worse. War wounds failed to faze her these days. But she felt some relief – and a strange sudden warmth at Sansa’s kindness _.  I have much support as Queen, from many good and clever people. But so few of them think to reassure me with I am embarrassed or uncertain._   “I feel bad for any offense I might have caused, regardless of how it might pale in comparison to the actions of others.” 

The lady smiled. “You should be commended. Too many people give themselves unwarranted credit for being less brutal than others, rather than actual merit of their own. 

“That is painfully true.” Dany grabbed a particularly ripe fruit and pulled it free from the tree with more force than was necessary.  Her hands were small, but far stronger than they looked. She dropped it in her basket. She had to be particularly careful with these. Her hands were often blistered and nicked. The sour juice agitated her wounds even through the fabric of her kidskin gloves. “People think they deserve honours for refraining from treason and betrayal.”

“’Yes, I may have murdered her and dumped her body in a river, but I didn’t rape her corpse in between murdering her and dumping her body in a river’,” Lady Sansa said, her voice altered to a mockingly low tone. As soon as she said it, though, her eyes widened in shock and she blushed. “My… My apologies, Your Grace. I don’t know what came over me, I---“

“’----I may have forced those slave girls to warm my bed, but I didn’t beat them while I raped them!’” Daenerys said in a poor imitation of a Meereenese accent. “’---And I sold the resulting children to a _very nice_ owner who always gives his child slaves sweetmeats before he touches them!’”

“There is great cruelty in the world. But I try to look at the goodness in it.”  Lady Sansa’s gaze was sad, but she did not flush or look away as so many of the Westerosi noblewomen Dany had met might have. 

“How are you finding court?” Dany already knew the answer, but she felt that she ought to ask out of courtesy.

“Court is… Interesting, as always.”

The queen blinked, surprised by this answer. She rather expected for Lady Sansa to give the pleasant, traditional answer of ‘lovely’. But this wasn’t that shallow lie. It wasn’t exactly the whole truth, either, but there was some honesty there. Awful as the place could be, it rarely was uninteresting.

Daenerys nodded. “I am sorry about the man from House Stokeworth. Please know, I never meant for you to suffer any insults.”

“I know, Your Grace. Jon speaks highly of you. I don’t blame you for the mistakes of others. I thank you for the concern. I’m sorry for any disruption my honour guard has caused. I did not mean for so many to come, but I found the offers difficult to refuse. They are my vassals, and I have a duty to keep them happy. Turning down such offers might have proved… messy.” 

Dany arched her brow. “Your honour guard? Is that what they are? Rumour names them your suitors.”

Sansa did flush at that. The colour made her all the more pretty.  “There may be some interest …”

“I can relate,” Daenerys said, reminded of all the propositions she’d fielded after Drogo’s death.

They kept picking the lemons as they spoke. Daenerys kept throwing them into the container with greater force than needed so that more than a few managed to bounce out. Sansa laid each one carefully into the basket, as if it was as delicate as a cut flower.

“They always think themselves fine flatterers for it, don’t they?” Dany said.  “It’s so uncomfortable. One thing I appreciate about my marriage to Aegon is that I no longer have to fend off over-eager, scheming suitors. And there are so many things to consider. You feel like a puppet, prey, and a product all at once.”

Sansa nodded. “They all lie. And if you choose wrong---- if you get to choose at all---- you have to suffer for it. Either you make the wrong decision and it hurts others. Or the supposed love ends the second they no longer need to pretend and they prove cruel or treacherous---“

Daenerys swallowed, remembering her second husband. “And you’re either sold by someone else or selling yourself. Either way, you eventually end up owned in some way. And even if you survive it the first time, it just makes the next time worse, because you know what to fear.” 

Sansa was silent for a long time, playing with a lemon on the tree without actually picking it.  Dany waited.   Finally, she spoke. 

“I always wanted to be wanted. I always wanted to please everyone.”  Sansa twisted the lemon around and around on its stem.  “And I was expected to do that with a great marriage. Your Grace, do you know—“

“That if things had been different, your sons might have sat the Iron Throne?  I know.  But that is in the past.”

“Bran is a cripple, and Rickon is unsound in his mind.  The continuation of House Stark rests with me.  I know that.  I must marry, and soon. I even wish it. But I never expected anything like this – all these lordlings paying court.  There was a time I would have loved it.”  A smile fleeted across Sansa’s lips, but then vanished. “But now, I have reason to fear and suspect everyone. I can’t be sure if the person who says he wants to protect me will later become the man I need protecting from.”

“It’s amazing how that can change,” Dany said bitterly, Hizdahr’s eyes staring at her from the back of her mind.

“Sweet words, soft caresses, and pretty promises quickly turn to cruel eyes, loud threats, and angry fists.” Sansa’s voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. 

“You spend so much time worrying about their anger, it’s only later you wonder why you’re not the one who is angry,” Daenerys said, somewhat amazed.  She thought of her brother, of how he had hardened as they struggled to survive in those years after Ser Darry died.  _I was always so afraid.  I had forgotten. No, not forgotten. But I have been the Mother of Dragons for a long time.  Dragons do not have to be afraid the way little girls do._  

Finally, the basket was full.

“Let’s go eat. There are some refreshments on a nearby pavilion.”

When they stepped off the ladders, Daenerys threaded her arm around Sansa’s. She felt like she’d just let go of some heavy load she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying. The dragon queen smiled.

When they reached the pavilion, Jeyne Poole took the baskets from them and passed them to the maids.

Daenerys leaned close to Sansa. “Would it be appropriate to ask your friend to sit with us?”

Sansa nodded.  “As this is an informal occasion, yes, provided she sit upon a stool and not a chair, and you do not do her any special honours such as serve her with your own hands.  Anything you wish to give her should be passed to me, or to one of your maids.”

There were four chairs at the table. _This is absurd_.  But at Dany’s request, two were removed, and a stool was quickly provided. Dany noted the speed. Her attendants must have had stools nearby, ready for just such a request.  _If I had asked Jeyne to sit in a chair, she would have been compelled to refuse.  Or perhaps placed in a difficult position with other members of the court if she had felt forced to accept._  

“Are you married, Lady Poole?” Daenerys asked when they were seated.

“Widowed, Your Grace. For some years now. It was a brief marriage, unhappy, and unregrettably childless.”  There was an ironic tilt to Jeyne’s mouth as she spoke.  “I returned to Lady Sansa’s service as soon as she came back to the north.”

Sansa smiled at Jeyne. “We grew up together in Winterfell, and Jeyne was my closest companion there.  When I came to King’s Landing, she accompanied me. But ill-fortune separated us.” 

“Lannisters separated us, and --.”

“Lannisters who are all gone, save my Lord Tyrion, and who should not darken this beautiful day,” Sansa said firmly. 

Daenerys would have rather liked to have heard more about the Lannisters and the mysterious others from Jeyne Poole, who showed signs of being happy to talk once the demands of formality were met.  _They are an odd pair, the lady and her companion. One bright, pretty, and sweet, and the other dark, disfigured, and wry.  But the bond between them is undeniable._   

When Daenerys saw the utter delight come over both of the Northern girls’ faces at the fancifully-decorated cakes and sweetments, she found herself smiling too. For the first time in what felt like moons, Daenerys Targaryen managed to relax without the aid of a dragon.

“I have many duties, but … on another day perhaps we might go riding in the Kingswood. Or perhaps hawking?” she suggested, “I hear you’re quite enthusiastic about it, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. I just… When I see them flying and hunting I just… I almost feel like _I_ am flying myself. I imagine I can see the treetops and feel the wind beneath my wings…” She got a wistful look on her face. Dany noticed Jeyne shift somewhat uncomfortably. Sansa seemed to notice as well, and blushed.

“It… It must sound silly to you, someone who actually _does_ get to fly.”

“No, not at all. The only problem is, I don’t know how to hunt with a bird,” confessed Daeenrys, hanging her head. “I know it’s popular with a number of ladies, but I haven’t been able to learn quite yet.”

“Then we shall have to teach you,” replied Sansa eagerly. “I have three well-trained birds.  They were gifts from my cousin Sweetrobin. If you wish to use one, I’d be happy to show you. I have very good control of them, and it’ll be easy. And it… it really helps clear your mind.”

“Not that your mind needs clearing, Your Grace,” Jeyne added suddenly. All at once, she seemed agitated. She kept shooting Sansa these odd looks, ones which were almost angry. “I mean, as newcomers to your court, we wouldn’t want to trouble you. You’re so busy with the kingdoms and your court and entertaining your ladies.” 

“But is not Sansa one of my ladies? And as her companion, are you not one of mine as well?”

Jeyne Poole reddened. “I wouldn’t want to offend some of the fine noblewoman, thinking to take my place among their ranks.”

Dany’s heart sank. The girl was right. Likely there’d be some sort of stink raised from outraged vassals over a steward’s daughter, let alone one with a disfigurement, acting as a personal companion to the queen. There was already far too much controversy over Missandei. _Bloody fools._

“Well,” she said quietly, “They can’t object to you serving Sansa, can they? You’ll just have to attend your lady as your lady attends me.”

That seemed to reassure the young woman. “It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

 _The gods forbid I get to have two intelligent, interesting new women openly join my retinue at once._ She sighed, but then found herself brightening again as Jeyne Poole did a mocking impression of one of her friend’s more odious suitors.  Sansa was torn between blushes and giggles. 

_I have gathered more than lemons today._

~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

The godswood had been a place of peace, one of the few locations in the Keep where he and Ghost could be alone. Now, Northerners constantly appeared there. Jon reckoned there hadn’t been this much use of the godswood since Aegon the Unlikely wed Bertha Blackwood. It bothered him, since he felt more in need of that spiritual solace than he had since the wars ended. 

Seeing Sansa was odd. He wasn’t sure whether or not to bring up the incident in the mud. He’d only been made aware of it a few moons prior, when he asked the guards why they didn’t restrain him during any of his fits. Their response had shocked him. _Sansa? Getting down in the mud?_

Before he knew of it, things were tense. While he appreciated her for all she’d done for the North and Bran, he felt a disconnect from her. They’d never been close as siblings, and now they were not even that. And when he saw her again, she ruled the castle and lands with this cool efficiency that was admirable, but not necessarily warm and inviting. Jon had looked at the young woman who was once his sweet, silly, ladylike sister and saw a stranger with little to no time for him.

To hear that the same woman had kept him from being tied up like an animal during his darkest, most wild moments… It took a good while to process. Flashes of it came back once he knew, until he had something like a full memory of it. The pitter-patter of heavy raindrops on the mud. Everyone keeping their distance. Limbs aching. Awful panic. Then a soft, feminine face and blue eyes staring at him, clutching his cheek, singing softly. Tenderness beyond anything he’d ever experienced.

After discovering this, he felt ashamed. It had been a year and a half since the incident took place when he finally remembered. And not once had he said thank you, or acknowledged it. He’d even considered her cold and hardened in that time.

Jon wanted to thank her, but he wasn’t sure how. How could he make up for all that time they never spoke?

Then there was the fact that having her there was just a horribly bitter reminder that Arya was gone. The two sisters were so drastically different, but her ghost seemed to follow Sansa like a shadow. There were times when Jon marvelled at how Arya could be dead when her seemingly weak and silly sister still lived. It was unfair and awful of him, but thoughts like that haunted him for two years.

 _Arya and Robb gone, Rickon seized by madness…_ Jon wondered sometimes if he could say the same for himself.

The night before, he’d sat with Sansa in his solar, sharpening Longclaw as she stitched something. They sat on the sofa near the fire, Ghost lying on the floor in front of them. Eventually, Jon found he could sharpen the blade no longer. When he put it aside, he found his hands painfully empty. He glanced at her, noting how the light of the flames flickered on her auburn hair, elegantly pinned away from her face with silver combs and hanging around her shoulders. The oddest, most irresistible urge overtook him.

“It---It’s good to have you back,” he said. She looked up and smiled. He smiled back, weakly, truly confused. “It’s good to have you back, Little Sister.”

Then, for some mad reason, he reached out, put his hand on her head, and mussed her hair. She squeaked and withdrew when he did, but not before he managed to knock one of the combs loose. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Sansa had recoiled, and was seemingly frozen, staring at him in nervous shock, as if he’d struck her. A sheet of hair fell in her face. Jon panicked.

“I’m sorry! I---“ _What is wrong with me?_ He got out of his seat and went to grab the comb, eventually having to bend down and retrieve it from under the furniture where she’d accidentally kicked it.

“You… You startled me. Please don’t do that,” she said, receiving the comb and nervously trying to fit it back in her hair.

 _My little sister is gone. And perhaps, so is the boy who was her brother._ He stared at the ceiling that night with that thought repeating in his head like a loop.

Today, on one of the first sunny days, he was in no mood to deal with nonsense. So when he and Ghost were interrupted in the godswood, he was thoroughly displeased to find two of Sansa’s suitors standing near the Heart Tree.  Jon attempted to conceal himself behind some bushes so that he could sneak away unnoticed.

“Your Grace!”

_Oh no._

Jon stopped short and let himself cringe for a second before Daven Cerwyn and Dormer Ryswell came before him. Daven Cerwyn was young and handsome and boyish, while Dormer was a bit older, with a thick brown beard and dark eyes.  They were both scions of important northern houses, and both clearly considered themselves leading candidates for Sansa’s hand. But now they seemed to have found common cause. 

“Your Grace, we wanted to speak you about your cousin, Lady Sansa. We fear she might be coming under an… undesirable influence,” Cerwyn said, frowning.

“Do you mean the veiled brother?” Jon asked, purposely getting it wrong. He didn’t want to have this conversation.

“Him too – what she sees in that man ... but that was not what we came to speak to you about.  No… We fear Lady Sansa might be succumbing to attentions from a more foreign source.”

“Oh, come off it, Ryswell,” Cerwyn said impatiently. “We’re talking about the Dornish prince. Trystane.”

 _Yes, I know._ Jon’s stomach sank. The evening Sansa arrived, Trystane ended up being the reason her meeting with Aegon went on without Jon throttling his half-brother. The Prince of Dorne diffused the conversation that evening with easy manners and kind compliments, pulling focus from his less genteel cousin. When Aegon noted Trystane’s positive reception of their new guest, he warmed to Sansa a bit more and even seemed contrite.

Since then, Jon had heard that the Prince of Dorne and Sansa had been seen playing cyvasse in the gardens. Sansa seemed to enjoy the man’s company.  Rumour had it that she was quite charmed by him.

The only thing that gave Jon pause about the situation was that Tyrion didn’t seem too pleased. He’d said nothing, but when he spied Sansa with Trystane, his expression would darken considerably. 

On that basis, Jon had looked into it a little, but could find no reason to disapprove. Neither Trystane nor Sansa had transgressed, and his cousin seemed happy. She enjoyed the prnce’s attentions far more than she enjoyed most of her suitors, who kept throwing their weight around.  He marked it down to Tyrion’s unease at seeing another man being friendly was with the woman who was in law Tyrion’s wife.  No matter the state of their marriage, that had to be discomfiting to the Hand.

For his own part, Jon liked Trystane, who postured less than many men far below him in rank. He was a good influence on Aegon as well, calming the young king when his passions overtook him. More than once the Prince of Dorne had acted as a peacemaker between the king and queen after their fights. The fact that he was made Master of Laws was a bit laughable, bit that was more Aegon’s insistence than Trystane’s, who seemed in on the joke. 

“My Lords, Prince Trystane has a fine reputation, one he’s earned,” Jon said, rubbing his brow. _I’m sorry he’s succeeding where you’ve failed, but that is how it works. The lady prefers the nice, calm, handsome southerner._

“He’s _Dornish,”_ Daven said, wrinkling his nose, “Some hot-blooded desert dweller should not be approaching the daughter of the North!”

“He’s the king’s cousin, so mind your tongue,” Jon warned. Aegon didn’t take well to people insulting Trystane, or anti-Dornish sentiment in general, being half-Martell himself. His distaste for it was so well known that even the Tyrells had learned to keep their mouths shut. Jon found that he had little patience for it himself.

“Your Grace, I apologize for my friend’s words but… Aren’t you at least a little concerned for your cousin’s virtue?” Ryswell asked. “The people of Dorne _do_ have a certain reputation. A sweet, gentle flower like your sister ought to be protected.”

“I have no reason to believe she isn’t,” Jon answered. “I know how important her safety is to fine men of the North like yourselves. I trust you all to never allow anything to happen that would compromise Sansa’s virtue---“ _Unless you’re the ones seeking to compromise it._ “If Prince Trystane oversteps himself, come and tell me. But until then I see no cause for complaint.”

He turned and walked away. This wasn’t good, though. _The honor guard is a problem._ Discussing it with his cousin, however, was not something he looked forward to. _But it’s either that or more brawls erupting._  

Jon didn’t understand how this was even happening. _How has Sansa of all people managed to cause so much trouble?_ She’d always been the easy one, the best behaved one of the Stark brood. No one ever used to worry about the perfect little lady who always did what she was told. And it wasn’t like that much had changed about her. His cousin seemed as sweet as ever.

 _So how do I tell her to send her suitors home?  Or at least some of them?_ Jon didn’t think she had any emotional attachment to most of them, judging by the way she had to hold back laughter when Jeyne mocked them. But he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps she might be fonder of one or two than she showed, and the last thing he wanted to do was discourage a genuine interest on her part.  It could be so hard to read her.

Besides, the men were present because they were noble sons of the North and had requested the honor of protecting and escorting her. Sansa had agreed to their presence.  Sending them home now might be seen as an insult. Sansa was far better at stomaching insults than she was at giving them. Dispersing her guard would put her in a difficult position.

That was the last thing Jon wanted to do.

He reached out and ran his hands through Ghost’s fur. “What do you think? Send the Northmen home? Maybe you could pay them a scary midnight visit, like we did with Rast at the Wall?”

His wolf declined to answer. Jon sighed. Matters concerning the North were often given to him, thanks to his background. He knew what the king and queen would want -- neither was thrilled with their new guests. But there could be trouble if he were seen to pressure Sansa into removing some of the Northerners. He might be seen as favouring some suits over others.

 _There’s someone else I might consult before going to her,_ he realized.


	4. Funny Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne attends to the affairs of her ladies. Sansa has a lovely afternoon filled with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long, guys, but the both of us have been pretty swamped. We hope you enjoy this chapter, though!
> 
> Chapter co-written with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)

Chapter Four: Funny Feelings

Jeyne:           

There was always a fly in the ointment, Jeyne Poole found. Always some unexpected difficulty.  One could only hope that it would be a small problem, easily removed or worked around.  Proper planning could anticipate problems, a firm attitude could settle them, but they were always there.  Jeyne had a fly in her ointment now. A big one. 

The process of settling the household into their new accommodations had gone smoothly. Some of the girls had thought that arrival at the Red Keep, after months on the road, meant that they could relax. Jeyne swiftly corrected that misunderstanding.  Their Lady’s work was only beginning.  That meant theirs was too. 

The tournaments and feasts that had been held on the way down here had been good training for her people in the challenges of washing clothes in strange keeps, handling costly silken gowns in and out of wagons without damage, and dressing hair to withstand a long day in the saddle and still appear immaculate for a formal arrival at yet another castle. (By comparison to the hair and the clothes, Sansa herself was easy to maintain.  Jeyne sometimes felt like she was more in service to the wardrobe than to the woman.)

Now they were at court, and the social obligations of a great lady were more pressing than a few dinners at remote keeps. Every day there were invitations to dine, to ride, to hawk, to boat, and to walk in the gardens. Invitations also had to be extended, to the right people. And in due time, one of the young lords who paid court to their lady would become _their_ lord.  This might be a one-way trip.  Jeyne thoroughly impressed that fact on her staff. Their conduct reflected on their lady.  Offend their future lord, or an important member of his own household, and they might all suffer for it.

Jeyne regretted some of the japes she had made at the expense of unfortunate suitors now. _She would be better off by far with a marriage to one of her brother’s northern bannermen._ _The moment she is wedded and bedded, she loses all negotiating power with her husband. Perhaps she will be allowed to keep her own household with her, and be permitted some freedoms, but if not, it would be nice to have a brother with a sizeable force of fighting men within a few days march._   Jeyne said as much to Sansa, but the other girl only replied that there might be larger political considerations.

 _Consider away_ , Jeyne told her friend. _But at the end of the day, the Starks need legitimate heirs from you more than they need alliances.  Those heirs need to be raised right._

Jeyne told herself not to worry.  Sansa had good sense.  _We’ve all changed a great deal since we left Winterfell with Eddard Stark.  With my father.  I thought things would work out without my attention. I know better now._

The Poole girl sighed, and banished these dark thoughts.  Sansa was out riding with some of the ladies of the court. Jeyne only had a little time to snoop through her friend’s correspondence and make sure there was nothing there to worry her. Sansa had an unfortunate habit of trying to conceal news that she thought likely to worry her old friend.  Jeyne’s view on the matter was that she would rather have the worry than the problems if situations weren’t dealt with.

Fortunately, there was nothing much of importance in Sansa’s letters.  Bran inquired after her journey and updated her on the affairs of Winterfell.  Lords too far north to join the honour guard expressed their dismay at their exclusions, in terms bordering on the excessive. Jeyne stowed the letters away in their original piles, and let herself out of Sansa’s chambers.

And there in the corridor was the fly in her ointment, all seven feet of him.  Jeyne’s eyes narrowed.  She pointed to an alcove and snapped her fingers. “Are you lurking again?  Is that all you ever do?  Isn’t there a ruin you could haunt, and stop plaguing me?”

Clegane glowered at her. “What were you doing? Sticking your nose into things not your concern?  Impressive, considering you don’t even have a nose.”

Jeyne pretended, as usual, that the argument didn’t’ sting. “I have real work to do, you half-faced, half-witted, descendent of the rejects of the kennels.” 

“Gowns and ribbons.” Clegane snorted. “Preparing to auction off your lady’s maidenhead to the highest bidder.”

As a matter of fact, Jeyne’s maidenhead had actually been auctioned off to the highest bidder in a brothel not far from this keep, and in her view the two situations did not compare in the least. She felt confident that Sansa would handle the marriage bed with aplomb.  But Clegane seemed genuinely distressed under the rough manners, so she let the matter slide.

“Sansa will be fine,” she said.  “Right now the thing I am most concerned about is a notorious known criminal with a bad disguise frequenting the corridors outside her chamber.  People will talk.  You need to stop this now.”

Clegane just stared at her.

His lack of response prompted her to press her point further. “There is no reason behind all this.” 

There was a note of whining in Jeyne’s voice. She could hear it and she hated it. 

 _Why did I ever agree to pass that message?_ Three moons into the trip, they stopped for the night at a small keep not far from the Inn at the Crossings. Sansa firmly refused an offer of hospitality from Amy Frey at Castle Darry, and she had been withdrawn and pale all day.  Jeyne finally convinced her to lay down after hours of arguing.  But while she saw to the unpacking of the wagons, a massive hand had touched her shoulder.  “You know who I am, girl.” A rough voice whispered in her ear.  “I need to speak to your lady.”

Her blood went cold upon hearing that voice. _The Hound.  Joffrey’s Dog.  The raper of Saltpans_.  She nearly called for the guards to take him away. But there had been something in his eyes … she went Sansa, without even knowing why. Her lady came out without a word spoken, her face white as milk.  She spoke to Clegane in the keep’s small Sept, standing before the altar of the Stranger. 

Jeyne never heard what passed between them, but when Sansa returned she announced that Clegane would travel with them, and Jeyne was to tell no-one the truth of his identity.

Today, Clegane’s face was grim.  “I have a bad feeling.  I don’t like the King.  I don’t like his cousin. I don’t like this horde of suitors. You are right. I have no evidence. But I guarded a Queen, and a Prince, for seventeen years.  Nothing ever happened to Cersei or Joffrey on my watch. I know the feeling of trouble. And there is trouble here, mark my words.”

And Jeyne wondered if the fly in her ointment was bigger than she had thought. 

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

In summer, the Northerners disdained most southern luxuries. In a war-torn winter and the months following it, when removing the last vestiges of the wights, such things became even less tolerated. Southern games had no place at Winterfell.

Not even children had time for true games. Many war orphans ended up at Winterfell. But everyone had to work. Sansa tried to make the work into games, at least. Keeping warm wasn’t just about fires or heavy furs, but about pretending to be wolves and falling into pack-piles at night. Come into my Castle became Help Build My Castle. Nursery rhymes about dragonglass and hunting. Having the children sent to deliver messages pretend to be ravens.

Competitions as well. Whoever could gather the most firewood, who could shovel and arrange the snow the best, uncover the best earth. Games of learning to recognize when meat was no longer edible, when what rope was wearing thin, which plants were poisonous, how to properly grow the best food in the glass gardens. Whoever completed these tasks the best got a prize. The girls got to try on Sansa’s opal bracelet. The boys got a kiss on the cheek from Lady Sansa herself.

Whatever could be done to remind the children what childhood was supposed to be.

But even with winter drawing to a close, games and luxuries were not readily available. Especially for adults. Especially for lords and ladies.

The North was the last to hear of Cyvasse. Only a few moons ago, Lord Wyllis Manderly sent Bran a set for his Name Day. Her brother had some interest in playing. But Sansa had far less. She played a few games, but still preferred to spend the evenings sewing.

She was in the south now, where new wool and fur gloves, tunics, and hose weren’t constantly needed.

Now at court, Sansa found herself regretting her neglect of the game. At court, everyone was mad for it. Even the ladies spent just as much time playing as they did sewing. Sansa only knew a few basic rules and found herself at an embarrassing disadvantage. After all, everyone knew Cyvasse was a game of wits. She’d worked hard to adopt more current fashions and stay abreast of the gossip and intrigue, but still felt like a rural simpleton when the boards and pieces came out.

Fortunately, she found a teacher. Trystane Martell wasn’t the best player in King’s Landing--- that was Tyrion. But like most foreign imports, Cyvasse arrived in Dorne first, and Trystane had played it the longest. He proved an excellent teacher: patient, kind, and clear.

Her enjoyment of his company eventually went beyond the game. Before long, Sansa could understand why the king valued his little sessions with the Prince of Dorne so much. She also found a special connection with the warm, open young man.

In her younger years, warnings of the bloodthirsty and lusty nature of the Dornish met her ears often. But Trystane was... unexpected. Most of Sansa’ experience with the Dornish was limited to her brief interactions with Oberyn Martell and his famous Paramour, Ellaria Sand.

Trystane was definitely striking, if a bit more subdued than his uncle. While he was friendly, funny, and disarming, there was just enough forwardness in him to excite. From the moment he met, he treated her like a friend, and seemed almost sheepish about his royal cousin’s more chilling response. Trystane drew the eye, definitely, and his thick dark curls and warm dark eyes weren’t the only reasons. The Prince of Dorne drew her in without overwhelming her, and he seemed very insightful and wise for someone so young.

Sansa found herself developing a sort of relationship with the prince similar to the one she’d wanted to build with Jon. Trystane, though, was easier to talk to, more relatable.

Her belief that she’d found a new friend at court seemed confirmed with each gaming lesson. _I’ve gained two new friends._ The queen was similarly kind and very, very fascinating, if a bit intimidating. Their conversations often became very intense.

But with Trystane… It was a great relief. She spoke to him and never found herself questioning anyone’s sanity or the appropriateness of her words. She felt comfortable with him. More comfortable than she’d felt with anyone in a good, long time.

It was a lovely afternoon a fortnight after her arrival to court. Sansa and the Prince sat by one of the fountains, surrounded by pink and orange hibiscus, Trystane’s gilded Cyvasse set on the small table between them. It was then Sansa thanked him.

“For what, My Lady?”

“Your company, and for taking your time with me. You’re Prince of Dorne and Master of Laws. And I’m sure you’d much rather be playing with King Aegon. That you’d take time to teach me like this is very charitable.”

Trystane’s lip curled slightly. “Charitable? I enjoy your company. And I am honored by the friendship of the last daughter of Winterfell.”

 _What do you want, though?_ He had to want something. “The last daughter of Winterfell is nothing to the company of dragons, I imagine.”

“Not at all. To be honest…” Trystane glanced around, then lowered his head and his voice, “I rather appreciate having a respite. A new friend like you helps me feel less like Aegon’s pet.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. For someone to say such a thing shocked her. Back in her old days at court, royal favor was like currency. No one despaired of it. “But---“

“—Please, I am the last trueborn Martell. I am a year younger than you. And yet I’m Master of Laws and the king’s constant companion. And I am grateful, and I love my cousin, but he has me around to comfort his ego. He likes beating me at this game, he likes reminding people of his blood ties, everything’s about him. And people here only show interest in me in relation to him or curiosity about my legendary family or exotic nature. You… “

“…Yes?” She cocked her head, staring into his warm dark eyes. _Stop it,_ she told herself. _Don’t look at him like a lovesick girl. Not now. Time for that might come later._ If he proved the right person. After her marriage was annulled. Once she could be sure he was a safe option. Once her position was secure. Then she could moon over him all she wished. But while he was only a possibility, while she still only knew him a little, she couldn’t let herself be caught up. 

She forced herself to concentrate on the game and glanced down at the board. Her Heavy Horse could move, and if she placed it just right, on her next turn her dragon could take out his catapult, then take his Heavy Horse a turn later. The problem was, she couldn’t remember if it was his turn or hers.  Tentatively, she reached down to move her Heavy Horse, only to have his hand come down to his elephant, which was two spaces away. Their fingertips brushed.

Sansa paused before pulling her hand away in spite of herself. Trystane wasn’t coal-colored like Jalabar Xho or Missandei the court herald, but he was of Rhoynish blood. His skin was olive-toned and smooth. It provided a sharp but fascinating contrast to the pure white of her own skin. _Beautiful,_ she thought, as she pulled her hand away reluctantly. There was a certain heat that radiated off of him, as if the desert had followed him from Dorne to the Crownlands.

The night before, she’d had a dream. A dream of long-fingered brown hands running up her skin. Her belly, her legs, her… Sansa blushed and glanced at her lap. _I can’t let him see me ashamed or embarrassed. It makes me seem vulnerable to him._ She looked up then, swallowing her disorientation. His eyes were still on her, a soft look on his face. She prompted him. “…I?”

Trystane did a double-take, and Sansa felt like the playing field was a bit more even. Her back straightened and her left eyebrow went up. Now he blushed. 

“You…You want to learn a game that I enjoy. And despite your connections, I can tell… you feel it too." 

This intrigued her. “Feel what?”

Trystane hesitated. “The loneliness. You hide it, but I see it. You’re on your guard with others. Who can blame you? People look at you and see a sigil and a name and echoes of your family. They see a superficial surface. They do the same with me.”

Sansa stiffened slightly. “No, it’s not the same.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not exactly, but it’s similar. You miss home, don’t you? You’re the only one of your tribe here. And there’s this responsibility you never expected, this isolation.”

Her jaw dropped. “How do you---?”

Trystane cast his eyes down to the board sadly. “I have a few of my Sand Snake cousins left, but… You know I wasn’t supposed to inherit Dorne, right?”

“You had an older brother.” Quentyn Martell died in Meereen, trying to tame one of Daenerys’s dragons. He wasn’t spoken of often. During one of their meetings about a week ago, Tyrion brought it up, sharply characterizing Quentyn as an absolute fool. Sansa couldn’t help but agree, but she felt some guilt for it. Trystane had already been so kind to her, and she imagined Quentyn must have been similar to his brother. Maybe the young man was a fool, and maybe Tyrion was right, but Tyrion thought _everyone_ was a fool.

What Trystane was saying though… It hit home. Sansa wasn’t entirely alone, of course. She had Jeyne, after all. But there was a certain pressure Sansa wasn’t sure Jeyne could relate to. Sansa felt such weight of expectation upon her thanks to her name. Just earlier, her friend had warned her about how urgent the need for Stark heirs was. On top of that, she had to represent the North on her own.

She thought maybe Jon might be able to relate. But her cousin still seemed so haunted. It wasn’t surprising. Sansa hardly blamed him. Jon had so much more on his mind than having to project an image. But…

There was the issue of heirs. Aegon and Daenerys had only been married for a couple of years. There’d been one miscarriage since they wed, and the issue of the succession still wasn’t resolved. Until they produced a son, Jon was heir to the Iron Throne. And he was still unwed. Sansa had hoped that perhaps the two might bond over the issue. Maybe they’d even help one another find proper spouses. But Jon was in no fit state to find or take a wife, much to the disappointment of the ladies of King’s Landing. No few of them thought that a love affair might cure him of the after-effects of war; all their pursuit did was drive him deeper into his shell. 

Trystane continued speaking. “And an older sister. She was heir to Sunspear.”

 _Of course._ The Dornish did things differently. Girls had the same rights of inheritance as boys. Succession was based on age alone, so Arianne was ahead of her brothers. She’d perished in the last sack of King’s Landing. Shortly after, Prince Doran perished from grief. “Oh, right, yes.”

She was blushing again. But Trystane didn’t seem to notice. He got a far off look in his eyes.

“She was my hero. I didn’t know Quentyn that well, he fostered away. Arianne was always running about with our cousins, but she was my older sister, and I saw her more often. Dorne was supposed to be hers. Now… I never expected it to happen. It all rests on me. I am the last scion of Sunspear, the last legitimate heir to the line of Nymeria. And as soon as I became that, it seemed that was nearly all I was. I thought I’d live my life as Trystane. Instead I became Prince of Dorne and the king’s cousin. I always thought all my cousins were girls. And that’s all I seem to be to these people. A prince, Dorne, and a cousin.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry. “For a long time I believed… That Bran and Rickon were dead. While I was a hostage in King’s Landing… I believed I was the last Stark. I was heir to Winterfell. I never expected it. I never thought of any claim I had. But all of a sudden, it was everything.”

His full lips turned up at the ends. “And now you’re a royal cousin and friend to the queen. And you know how false everyone here is.”

She nodded.

Trystane shrugged. “I guess there’s more that people see. They see an echo of the Red Viper and the Sand Snakes. They see olive skin and foreign, Dornish ways.”

 _You should be happy they see the olive skin, it’s beautiful._ But she didn’t say that. “They see the Young Wolf and the Greenseeing Lord of Winterfell. They see pretty eyes and red hair. They see Joffrey and Cersei’s old plaything and the bride of the Imp.”

The Prince of Dorne nodded knowingly. “You relate. I knew you would, even if you didn’t know it yourself. Sometimes we’re prey. Sometimes we’re a spectacle. At worst, we’re both.”

_Last time I was in King’s Landing, I was completely isolated. But it seems now, every week I find someone who understands me. And it’s the last person I expected._

Still, she didn’t feel the circumstances were quite equivalent. _Sunspear is at least yours. I have all the duty and pressure, but few of the rights._ Sansa loved Bran, who gave her far more freedom and influence than most lord would give their sisters. He even decided to let her pick her husband _“You know more of these matters than I do, after all.”_

She suspected his attitude was partly due to him foreseeing that such a thing would be the best course of action, which was comforting. It gave her confidence. _I won’t choose a Joffrey this time._ But Bran applied that logic to a number of things. The trust her younger brother showed in her was one of the things that made her able to keep moving on.

“But you have a choice,” she replied. _But if Bran wished to, he could marry me off or cast me out against my will. No matter how much work I do, Winterfell may never truly be mine._ She remembered the day Rickon was recovered and how at once she was no longer addressed as Lady Stark. She remembered how all of a sudden, how after weeks of work running the castle, she suddenly had to seek approval from the bannermen as Rickon’s regent. How, even when Bran came back and officially declared her his regent, she was still expected by the lords around her to go and get Bran’s signature or official approval whenever she made a decision they objected to. _At Winterfell, I lived on borrowed time._ Bran would never cast her out of her home, but he could, and if anything were to happen to him, Sansa couldn’t depend on Rickon. She was in a position where, no matter what she did, she’d be at the mercy of her younger brothers. Her own home would never truly be seen as hers without the deaths of those she cared for most.

Trystane Martell didn’t need to worry about such things. He could come and go from Sunspear and the Water Gardens as he pleased. He would never have to worry about losing his name, of people almost making him a Lannister. _He will always be Trystane Nymeros Martell. No one would ever question that, or his rights to his home. I am not so lucky._ She’d been called “Lady Lannister” more than once since arriving at court. It chilled her to the bone to hear it.

Her companion nodded. “I do. I could go back to Sunspear. But Aegon needs me, and he loves me.” He sighed. “I love him. I don’t want him alone with these people. I couldn’t protect Arianne. I can protect him. Or at least comfort him. There were times in my youth when I knew my sister was hurting, but I didn’t know how to comfort her. I want to do that for Aegon. She fought and died for him, I want to make sure the king she died for is one we can depend on.” 

Sansa shivered. “I fought so hard not to leave the North. I didn’t leave until Bran told me I should come back here.” _It wasn’t an order,_ she reminded herself. _It was advice._ “Robb fought and died for the North, as did my mother and father and cousin. When I was here as a child, I ended up wanting to go home again so badly. Even if the halls were empty…”

Those dark eyes all of a sudden lost much of their warmth and went hollow. “Most of my family is gone from Sunspear now. My Sand cousins… they’re always traveling, looking for something. And I never bonded with them like Arianne did.”

 _And here I am complaining._ Sansa felt ashamed of herself. “I’m so sorry. At least some of my brothers are left to me. But you…”

Trystane swallowed. “I am not the only one who lost family, I know. It is the nature of war. You lost just as many as I did. But if I were to regain any of them, I couldn’t imagine being able to leave home. That you did that to come back here, when you suffered so… It’s brave.”

 _Brave. It was brave._ Sansa didn’t know anymore. _I have a man with me who will die before he lets harm come to me._ That is what Sandor said. _Is it brave to do this when I have a man like that with me?_ “Many people would think it scandalous. Coming here to nullify my marriage is hardly ladylike.”

Trystane scoffed. “Many people are stupid. Especially these courtly ponces. Who cares what’s ladylike?”

Sansa laughed in spite of herself. “You sound like my sister.”

Then she froze. _Oh, Arya._ Tears welled up in her eyes. _You were right. You were always right. Why couldn’t I see that you were right? You knew how awful it all was, and I scolded you for it. I hated you for keeping me from impressing the worst people imaginable._

She tried to hide her tears. _No, no, I can’t break down about Arya._ She had to be strong about her sister.

But then she noticed Trystane looked on the verge of them as well. Instinctively, she grabbed a lace handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him. He smiled and wiped his eyes.

“I feel silly. Drying my eyes, as if I were the lady and you the gentleman.”

“It’s fine. I’m getting a bit weepy myself. Thoughts of my sister…”

She spoke of her sister at least more easily than Jon did. Jon spoke of Arya, did things for Arya, even when he didn’t realize it. Sansa had wept a thousand tears for her sister. Tears of regret, tears of anger. She’d believed Arya dead for years before it was confirmed---- a dark winter day when a skinny, bloody sword was sent to Winterfell and an enormous pack of wolves arrived at the gates howling. But once it was confirmed, once she was back in the halls of her home and she was finally allowed to be Sansa Stark and love her family again, it was like all those years where she had to deny her love and her family came rushing to her eyes. She’d probably wept enough to flood the castle. 

But only ever in private. Sansa couldn’t stand to show those feelings to Rickon or Jon or almost anyone else. Not even Jeyne. She was good at hiding those things, and she needed to be strong. They mourned Arya too. She couldn’t be the one who cried. She needed to be the shoulder to cry upon.

She’d only wept for Arya with Bran. When he first came back, his eyes odd and milky, his lips chapped, clinging to Summer with his legs dragging in the snow. Sansa had found him at the gate, picked him up, and brought him up to her bedchamber. When they got there, she went to get Rickon, who ended up bruising her cheek with his fist. It happened a lot in those days. He calmed down and fell asleep in her arms as she mounted the stairs. How she found the strength to carry both boys, she still didn’t know. But she put them both in her bed, and then fetched the skinny, bloody blade from the leather chest on the foot of the bed. Rickon was still asleep, but both Bran and Sansa burst into tears. They piled into bed together, crying, and pulling the covers over their heads.

She and Bran alone did the same thing the nights when they were building Arya’s tomb in the crypts below. Bran drew a mockup of what he wanted the statue to look like. The girl in the sketch had a direwolf and a skinny sword, fighting something, but she didn’t look like Arya when she saw her last. The statue looked like a woman a few years older, much prettier, but far more haunted. When Sansa asked her brother why he chose this image, he replied that he’d seen her. “Sansa… She died trying to get back to Winterfell. She was traveling here. She was… She was near the Dreadfort. She’d found Nymeria. She was killed by wights who were attacking a village.”

Sansa was sure at the time that he was dreaming. But when she made inquiries, the stories confirmed it. She never could find out who sent the blade, but there was a village that was saved by a young woman with a skinny sword and a pack of wolves flanking her. The massive direwolf she traveled with died and was stuffed and kept in the town sept until it was delivered along with a set of burnt bones to Winterfell and placed in Arya’s tomb with her blade.

On these nights--- the night Bran drew Arya fighting off the wights, the night the statue went up, the night they received their sister’s remains--- those nights they cried together. They didn’t speak much, they just pulled the covers up over their heads and cried.

Bran she could speak and weep with. She’d thought maybe she might do the same with Jon. But Jon… _He grieves differently. He clings to her being alive. That’s why he mussed my hair. He tried to bring her back in a way._ Bran never treated Sansa like their sister. Sansa was petrified of something like that happening again.

But at this moment, with Trystane, she didn’t feel quite that same fear.

They spoke of their sisters then. Their fierce, impulsive sisters who always seemed eager to prove themselves, who felt undervalued, who so hated the rules imposed on them. It felt good to speak of Arya in such a way. Jon could barely get three words out about her.

As she shared memories with Trystane, Sansa felt as free as she once imagined her sister was during her early days of captivity, when she believed Arya was back at Winterfell. There was something there, something freeing. Strangely enough, she felt less of an urge to weep as the conversation proceeded and more of an urge to laugh. _Arya did more than just die,_ she found herself remembering, _she did and said funny things. She did mad things. She got into trouble._

Trouble that once infuriated Sansa, but now… It seemed ridiculous and sweet in the best way. She could finally enjoy what remained. There wasn’t just the regret of all the harsh words shared, all the teasing, all the resentment. There was the laughter over snowball fights and games of hide and seek and cakes stolen from the kitchens.

Trystane’s stories of his sister were fascinating. And after hearing so much of the legendary Arianne Martell, it was lovely to learn of her from someone who had truly loved her. She’s heard of heated blood, ferocity, desert fire, and sensuous beauty. But Trystane spoke of a mischievous, ambitious, woman with feelings of neglect and a weakness for handsome men. He spoke of someone real.

And as he spoke, although his words were light, his eyes shone with a deep grief. 

As he came to the end of a story about a thoroughly thrashed, over-eager suitor of Arianne’s who ended up with his head stuck in a sand dune, Trystane lifted his cup.

“To heroic older siblings, fierce sisters, and home.” 

Tears of an utterly different sort coming from the corners of her eyes, Sansa met this toast with a smile and drank deep.

The Cyvasse board was more or less forgotten. After a while, Trystane began telling her of the Water Gardens. It sounded like a place enchanted, filled with crystal blue pools and the laughter of children. There was even a sweet story attached: Prince Maron Martell married the first Daenerys Targaryen, a princess, officially forging peace between the Iron Throne in Dorne. The prince built the Water Gardens for his beautiful wife. And one day, when the princess saw how the common children suffered in the hot sun, she ordered that all children regardless of rank would be allowed to swim and play together in the pools.

Sansa replied with tales of the hot springs in Winterfell. “We pump the water through the walls to keep us warm.”

“We don’t really have that problem in Dorne. Quite the opposite.” He wiggled his eyebrows in a way that would have seemed coarse if anyone else did it. But she just found it cute. 

Sansa laughed. It felt good to laugh. They got up and began to walk. The prince took her arm. After a short while, he took her hand and threaded his fingers with hers.

 _We don’t really have that problem in Dorne._ Up north, there were times she felt so cold she could barely move her fingers. But now… things seemed so warm. 


	5. Examination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant visit to the Sept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys--- Sorry about the shortness of this, but it seemed like a natural jumping off point. 
> 
> This'll be a good chapter for Tyrion and Jeyne Poole fans.

Chapter Five: Examination

Tyrion: 

Tyrion sat in the High Septon’s office, glaring at the man. “I don’t see why this is necessary.” 

There was no part of this encounter that he didn’t hate. He didn’t like the High Septon, an old man almost as puritanical as his predecessor, though lacking the zealotry and army (thank the gods). The Septon liked to blame the end of the Faith Militant’s brief re-entry into existence on Tyrion, supposedly as “revenge” for Cersei’s arrest and shame walk. It was a proposition that Tyrion had laughed over hysterically with Lyra on more than one night. The idea that he might seek vengeance over his sister’s humiliation was ludicrous; the walk was objectively an outrage, but Tyrion was no martyr of the faith and he had suffered enough at his sister’s hands. The end of the Faith Militant was certainly something he supported, but it was enforced by the king and queen for pretty much every good reason, none of them concerning Cersei.

The Septon also hated that Tyrion drank and that he opently kept a woman who was not his wife  (“like a Dornishman”) and who came from a different land that worshipped different gods. Furthermore, he hated that someone so obviously cursed by the Gods with physical affliction was a Lord Paramount and Hand of the Crown.

Hence the Lord of Casterly Rock’s current place sitting before the Septon’s desk, staring at anything but the beady-eyed old man.

The silence hung over them like a mantle. Tyrion loathed it. Usually, he loved talking, even to people he hated. So much fun to needle them. But one, he needed something from the Septon and two, The occasion for this visit was so horribly awkward and foul that Tyrion worried that bile might flow from his mouth if he opened it.

So he hunched over the desk, quill and ledger in hand, and took notes, ignoring the man’s affronted look at The Imp using his desk.

 _A festival needs planning. A city and drunken visitors need feeding and entertaining. It’s the first harvest festival of the spring after a long winter. I’m not going to let you waste valuable time._ Any festival was hard to organize, but given the occasion, this would be near impossible. Likely the festival in King’s Landing would be the most visited in history. Not only the first one of the spring, but the first spring one with the dragons returned. People of every birth would be flocking to see the absolute wonder of it all and drink their fill. 

All this after a five year, war-torn winter.

Parts of the city needed redistricting, cleaning, and repairs. Structures for entertainment, containment, and accommodations needed to be organized. Food, drink, decorations, materials for building, and workers needed to be supplied. Peace, security, safety, and efficiency had to be maintained at all costs. This was important. It was the introduction of the new Westeros. Not since the Tourney at Harrenhal would an event prove this monumentous.

 _Also the dragons._ An easy, ready-made centerpiece. But still… even as trained as they’d become, they could easily cause a panic if not handled right. _All the more reason I shouldn’t have to be here._

In theory, he didn’t actually have to be here. They didn’t need his presence to accomplish the objective of the day, hence Tyrion’s place at the High Septon’s desk attending to other matters in silence. But the Hand of the King hadn’t gotten to this place by being stupid. 

 _Also, I’m not a brutal, uncaring monster,_ he reminded himself, echoing the words Lyra spoke to him that morning when he lamented his visit today. _Not given what my wife is enduring right now._            

Sansa had arrived in King’s Landing with a sworn note from holy women from both the Vale and the North swearing to the existence of her virtue, but that proved not to be good enough to the High Septon. The Vale one was old--- from when Sansa was fourteen. And Northern clergy, being under “the influence” of both Heart Tree-worshipping heathens and Stark loyalists, apparently weren’t trustworthy enough.

Utter bollocks. But the new Septon was petty. In some ways that was good--- it was able to satisfy the man in a way the High Sparrow could not be appeased. As long as you allowed him to throw his weight around in some manner, he was relatively harmless. But he could also create situations like this. Tyrion would have preferred a bribe, but he suspected on this count, the price would be especially ridiculous. Tyrion intended to marry Lyra once all this nonsense was complete, and getting pemission for that would likely already put too much gold in the Septon’s coffers. Falsifying a claim of maidenhead was a debt that would likely continue demanding payment, and Tyrion didn’t need that. Besides, it wasn’t just his affairs that were on the line.

The Hand had to give it to Sansa Stark, she had an immensely thick skin. When he told her what was required, she didn’t even blink before agreeing. Even Tyrion had been shocked by how matter-of-fact she was about it all.

“Are… Are you sure?” he’d asked, eyeing her warily. “It wouldn’t be a Septa of yours…”

“Do you doubt my virtue, My Lord?”

It wasn’t Sansa’s innocence he doubted, necessarily; it was the physical evidence of it. Lots of highborn girls lost their maidenhead through riding, and Sansa had ridden quite a bit. But that wasn’t a conversation he was interested in having with her, so he dropped the subject and took her word for it.

He trusted the ethics of the Holy Order less. He wouldn’t put it past the High Septon to order the Septa to do something during the examination to compromise the annulment. Tyrion’s presence in the Great Sept during the examination served as a warning. Sansa had her little noseless friend Jeyne by her side and that giant Brother who was obviously Sandor Clegane (Tyrion decided it was best to humor the man and pretend not to recognize him. He didn’t have time to look into THAT little tale nor did the matter seem urgent enough to make time for it) right outside the door of the cell. With Tyrion in the Sept itself and able to be close by the second anything happened, the examination was far more secure. 

Also, he owed it to Sansa to be around, regardless of whether she found his presence comforting. It was his fault she was in this position. His and his blasted family’s. After everything that happened, it seemed wrong to just abandon her as she suffered more indignities on account of their marriage. House Lannister had taken a lot from the Starks and Sansa in particular, and there was some manner of debt to be repaid there. Leaving her alone in the Great Sept as some stranger peered between her legs would just be another thing.

These examinations could be awful. Lyra told him. She was originally from Meereen and was married very young to a much older, rich nobleman. One of the customary rituals was to have the women in the groom’s family conduct a thorough examination to ascertain both the bride’s virginity and fertility.

Tyrion’s genitals were the one part of him he never felt the need to doubt, but apparently the same could not be said for most women. Lyra was, on  the whole, cautious regarding Sansa, but on this matter her sympathies were clear.

“You’re always sure there must be something wrong with you,” Lyra had said, “or something will go wrong, or that there will be some mark of something there that’ll horrify someone or make you look guilty of something. I thought, ‘What if my barrier isn’t perfect? Will they think I was wanton? What if my parts are shaped wrong somehow, and everyone finds out? My body does this and this, what if I’m the only one who has that happen? And then they’ll all see.’" 

When she told him this, he had scrambled underneath her skirts, gave her a wicked grin, and assured her with a dirty tone that her parts were definitely perfect. But for the first time he could remember, his humor didn’t immediately snap her out of it.

Lyra in general had a warm, jovial attitude. Even her anger had this energy to it. But when she spoke of this, her voice became uncharacteristically small. It scared him. His lover was not meant to be small in any way.

That fear insured that Sansa wouldn’t be visiting the Sept for this without him. Sure, he’d complained at length about it this morning, but there was never any question that he’d be there, really. A man who loved Lyra zo Dezzak could not shirk this sort of duty. 

It did make some other guilt about Sansa surface, however. Namely, the matter of Trystane Martell. The Hand didn’t have much time to most of his wife’s affairs -- to him, anything beyond the affairs of their annulment and the most rudimentary political obligations were none of his business. So he had not kept the closest eye upon her. Jon had assured him he’d take care of that. Tyrion had hoped that Sansa’s interest in Trystane would be a short-term scenario, even trusted it. While most were fooled by Trystane’s apparent affability, Sansa Stark had dealt with numerous two-faced people, including Littlefinger, the most deceitful person at all. Tyrion figured that before long she’d pick up on the fact that something was off and steer clear. She had a lot of suitors. Tyrion imagined it would go nowhere.

 _And besides,_ Tyrion had assured himself weeks ago, _those rowdy, ridiculous Northern suitors of Sansa’s wouldn’t stand for it._ Those men were so troublesome and willful that simply managing them would take too much of Sansa’s time for her to waste it on Trystane Martell. He figured she’d feel compelled to pick a Northerner by the sheer volume of pressure among her honor guard anyways. And whatever part of her time that the Northerners failed to occupy, his wife’s new friendship with the queen would make up for. _She’ll be through with Trystane’s company within a fortnight,_ he promised himself.

But then yesterday afternoon he saw them in the gardens playing Cyvasse and laughing.

It shocked him. Sansa had otherwise handled herself very well at court by all accounts. The friendship with Daenerys was particularly encouraging. The Hand had seen a difference in the woman’s mood and an improvement in her mastery of Westeros social etiquette since Sansa had arrived--- Aegon had tried to coach his wife, but was a miserable teacher with bad habits of getting distracted or being painfully condescending, so efforts on that account often varied in effectiveness. Jon’s mood had improved a bit too, and recently even the conflicts with the Honor Guard had settled a bit. The Tyrells seemed to be actively pursuing her, something she handled with surprising grace and tact, and her reputation with the court and the commonfolk alike was excellent.  His ‘little wife’ had clearly become a political force to be reckoned with.

That she’d be charmed by Trystane Martell… It seemed wrong. _Didn’t Joffrey teach her anything?_  

Addressing the matter, though, was practically impossible. If Tyrion spoke of the reason for his loathing of the Prince, it could be dangerous. The man was the king’s cousin, and Tyrion had no proof. If he spoke of it to anyone--- anyone at all--- it wouldn’t just be his life that was in danger.

It was maddening. _All the power I wield, in theory at least, and I can’t have justice on this._  

He tried not to think about it. Among the festival guests at court would be a number of eligible bachelors that would likely be considered more suitable by Sansa’s family than Trystane. Someone whose keep was a bit closer to family, or who was simply friendlier with the Starks. The supply of young, suitable men for a young maiden of high birth was in relatively short supply at court. That would change with the festival and things would likely improve once she had more choices.

He didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, though. It would be a while before he could take action against Trystane. With Westeros still so unstable, that time was not now. His concerns had to lie with the realm. The day when he’d make his move would have to wait. As much as he’d rather not have Sansa in the crossfire when that happened, he couldn’t spend all his time worrying about it.

There was one major good piece of news, at the very least. _One life-saving piece of news,_ he thought with a smile as he reflected on the meeting he’d had with his king and queen that morning in which Daenerys’s violet eyes glowed more brightly than he’d ever seen.  The queen was with child.

 _The most pressing matter of all,_ he thought, _as much of a relief as it is a worry._ They’d have to be as careful as possible. Daenerys had only miscarriages thus far, and as strong as she was, she did not exactly have the most perfect build for birthing.

Tyrion groaned. _What has happened to me?_ He used to think of women with a hard prick, his greatest concerns being the shapeliness of their teats and legs. These days he was worrying about births, maidenheads, examinations, feelings, and babies. He was like an old midwife. Tyrion had expected all sorts of new concerns to address if he ever became Hand of the King, but this was not an area he expected to ever have to concern himself with.

 “Is there something ailing you, My Lord Hand?” The Septon asked. Tyrion looked up. He’d forgotten the man was there.

“Nothing, just a headache.”

The door opened and the thin-lipped Septa Daryss walked in, Sansa and her friend behind her. 

“I’ve examined her,” Daryss said, looking nervous and oddly guilty. Tyrion glanced at Sansa, who kept her eyes impassive and fixed on a spot on the desk.  Her friend looked a little pale. _Oh no._

“And?” the High Septon demanded.

“Lady Sansa is without any shadow of a doubt, a maiden,” Daryss confessed this like it was a crime. “There were absolutely no suggestions that she has been… breached… in any way, shape or form. She’s as untouched as the Maiden holy.”

“So… nothing that might warrant further investigation?”

Daryss shook her head. 

Despite his relief, Tyrion shuddered to hear this. _I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I had the chance to know, and I declined._ Before either of the clergy could say another word, Tyrion interrupted. “Excellent! Her castle walls remain unbreached! And trust me, High Septon, I’m not the sort who would fail at an attempt at this sort of thing. If I want a barrier removed, I do it thoroughly. Ask my mistress. So, are we satisfied? The match was unconsummated. Our vows unfulfilled. We have no valid claims upon one another. We can sign and finish?”

The Septon cleared his throat. “Once… Once the festival is over, I can have the contract ready for you.”

“What is the delay, exactly?” Tyrion asked.

“Since the marriage is of such high political importance, I want the dissolution to be witnessed by every member of the Most Devout. They won’t all be in the capital until the festival. Then… we’ll all be so busy…”

The Hand glared. “Listen to me, Septon, there is no reason---“

“---There is. I have a right to demand it. This is a union that could have birthed much needed heirs to both Winterfell and Casterly Rock. If I’m to dissolve it, I owe it the realm to make sure it has every witness to its validity needed.” 

Lyra was still fertile, but if they weren’t successful, he’d been grooming Martyn for years. The Lannister line was still secure. The Stark one was in more danger, but Sansa was in her prime and her mother delivered five healthy children.

Tyrion met the man’s eyes. They were unshakeable. He swallowed. “Fine, but if any of them leave before the contract is signed, well, let’s just say the Father’s Justice shall win out. Oh, and I want a formal announcement that the match is to be dissolved at a set date. I want it confirmed so that the lady and I might move forward with certain personal matters with our reputations intact. Is that understood?" 

He wanted Lyra to greet the guests at the festival as his betrothed, not his mistress. If the annulment was confirmed, she could do that. He was sick of listening to the sycophants among the nobility sneer about “sin.”

“Is that nece—“

“Yes! It is nece---! Extremely nece---!” Tyrion insisted. “The queen is very fond of Lady Sansa, and would no doubt like to see her friend enjoy the festivities as a maiden unencumbered by the tethers of a false marriage. If the lady was denied that right, I think Her Grace might prove very cross.” 

That quieted the man. “Very… very well. The service tomorrow shall announce it. The day after the festival, it shall be signed.” 

Tyrion nodded. “Good. Give me a signed record of my non-wife’s maidenhead and we can be gone.”

As they left the Sept, Clegane joined them, his eyes narrowing at Tyrion from behind his scarf. The Hand went to his soon-to-be-former-wife and laid a hand on her wool skirt. “Are you alright, My Lady?”

Her noseless friend hissed. “Ink! Lamb’s wool!”

His fingers were smudged and the dress was cream colored. He removed them. 

Sansa nodded. “Fine, My Lord. Thank you for your concern. And … everything.”

There was this awkward pause. Tyrion glanced around. There weren’t too many people around the pavilion, but there was that familiar itch that he got from crowds. He glanced longingly at his closed liter. “Well… Good. Have a… Have a nice day, My Lady.”

She curtsied and made for her horse. Tyrion moved to get to his litter, but the noseless one --- _Jeyne---_ Tyrion remembered--- stopped him. 

“You needn’t concern yourself anymore, My Lord. No need for the presence of lions now.”

“I am only a little lion, My Lady,” he assured her. “Cloak the bride and place her under your protection if you wish. I’m sure you make a better Lord Husband to her than I could. She’d not have to worry about inky fingers.”

He wiggled them at her. Despite herself, Jeyne snorted and a hunk of fluid came dribbling out from the hole in her face, uncontrolled. She clutched it, face going red, and Tyrion tossed her a handkerchief. He knew this particular pain. 

He pointed to his own missing appendage. “Axe to the face. You?” 

“Frost bite,” she whispered.

“Very Northern of you. Well, I bite less than the cold, I promise you,” Tyrion said, nodding. He bit his lip then. “Just… A word of advice, from one lack-beak to another?”

Jeyne’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Tyrion hesitated and leaned in. “Watch… Watch out for the Dornishman. That’s all I can say.”  

Jeyne’s eyes widened in surprise.  Then they narrowed.  She nodded.  “I shall.”

He bowed. “Good day, My Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter co-written with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)


	6. Trepidation Before Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Dany both get some troubling news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to our new beta, Bbanziaz, for her help!
> 
> Chapter co-beta'd with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)

Chapter Six: Trepidation Before Celebration

Bran:

He woke with a jolt of queasiness, and not the sort that usually accompanied his visions. _No, no. That’s not right. That can’t be right. Summer!_

His direwolf entered his bedchamber. “Clothes,” his master commanded. A shirt and trews had been laid out on a chest.  Summer grasped the in his jaws and brought them to Bran.    Once the young Lord of Winterfell was properly dressed, he had Summer pull his cart near.  The direwolf waited as he settled himself in, then wiggled into the harness. “Let’s go to the Godswood.”

Bran didn’t always remember all the details of his visions, especially when they came in the form of dreams. Bits and pieces of what he had seen were dissipating now. He was grateful for that, but what remained was still enough to upset him.

 _If this is that old corpse’s idea of a joke_ … Lord Bloodraven was no great humorist, not even when he was young, according to the books.  But Bran sometimes suspected the books did not tell the entire story.

When Bran returned to Winterfell, he’d acquired every piece of information he could on the Great Bastard. Most texts in Winterfell’s library were destroyed, but Sansa had managed to get him some tomes sent from the Eyrie--- their cousin Lord Robin of the Vale adored her and denied her nothing that she asked for. Even before the books arrived, though, his sister had known a bit about the man. She was a great fan, not necessarily of the Bloodraven himself, but of his lover Shiera Seastar and all of King Aegon IV’s mistresses and his Queen Naerys.

“The Bloodraven became Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch because Shiera refused to marry him. She warmed his bed, but would not be his wife. A smart woman.”

That last comment had shocked Bran. His prim, proper sister characterizing such a scandalous state of things as smart just didn’t fit well with what he knew of her. When he asked her what she meant, Sansa’s eyes widened.

“A couple of reasons. There were the Blackfyre Rebellions,” she said. “Both Shiera and Bloodraven were legitimized. Any son of theirs could and would be seen as a threat.”

“But Bloodraven was loyal to King Daeron.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean his sons would be. And really, considering all the rebellion and destruction, it would be natural for the king to cast a suspicious eye upon one Great Bastard marrying another and having a legitimate Targaryen child with her. And even if their child was loyal, and proved himself so to one king, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t somehow manage to draw the ire of the next man to sit the Iron Throne. A legitimate son of the Bloodraven and Shiera would have the perfect bloodlines to try and overthrow a monarch, should he choose to. Then there was Bittersteel, who wanted Shiera for himself and hated the Bloodraven. A marriage would drive him to further anger, anger he might direct at their children. Westeros was already in chaos. Their marriage would only risk bringing more.”

It was conversations like this that forced Bran to urge Sansa to go back to King’s Landing. Jon was there, and judging by their brother-turned-cousin’s state of mind when Bran last saw him, he needed Sansa more than Bran did.

 _But not like that_ , the Lord of Winterfell thought as Summer carried him across the grounds to the godswood. He gave little nods of acknowledgment to the early morning workers he saw. Their subjects had gotten used to seeing their lord traveling around with his wolf at all hours.  Summer they didn’t fear.  Shaggydog was a different matter.  Rickon’s direwolf had to be confined to the Godswood.

The thought of his brother made Bran stop his wolf and direct him to the tower where Rickon was kept. Septa Jorelle, Rickon’s chief nurse, was nodding off in her chair in the room at the tower base, but bolted up at once.

“It was a difficult night, my lord,” the woman said.  “He lost his speech again: we could get no more than growls out of him.  Maris tried to sooth him – he usually responds well to her -- but the fear overcame him.  He tried to bite her.  He’s sleeping now.”

Bran nodded and made for the godswood again, heart aching somewhat. What is the use of having a thousand eyes, he wondered, if tragedy is all you get to see for those you love?

He had always seen the direwolves as gifts from the gods, but as he thought about his younger brother he wondered if they might be curses.  He was so young when his wolf came to him, and a powerful warg.  If he’d had a family to keep him connected to human things, perhaps it would have been different.  But one by one, Rickon lost everyone he had loved, until his wolf was all he had left. _Perhaps he is happier as a wolf, though._  

Sansa’s presence at Winterfell had confused Rickon.  He saw Osha in her, and perhaps even Catelyn.  He followed her around, or mooned at the window waiting for her.  But her visits never soothed him.  They only left him angry and frightened, looking for faces that would never reappear.

He’d hoped for a better ending for his only surviving sister.   Sansa’s letters, even Jon’s, spoke of a chance for one of the Starks to live a life that might make them happy. As much as he missed her, Bran liked the idea of Sansa getting to spend her years in sunny Dorne, being addressed as ‘Princess’, and eating blood oranges and sipping wine. She’d spent so many years taking care of everyone else, so many years in the cold, so many years putting her own wants and needs aside.

Prince Trystane might be Dornish, but according to Jon, he was a good, tempering influence on the passionate new king.  Jon said that pretty much everyone liked him (aside from Sansa’s suitors and, oddly enough, Lord Lannister).

Meanwhile, Sansa spent half of her time speaking of “the potential match” in stoic, political terms, stressing the increased links to the crown, greater unity between the various realms of Westeros, and the powerful symbolism inherent in a Stark-Martell alliance that could very well “heal many wounds.” In addition to that, she spoke of certain benefits that could come about, “we could supply them the freshwater they need, they could supply us with numerous materials they ship in from the East”. It showed she was thinking clearly.

The other half of her letters were composed of anecdotes and tributes to the prince’s virtues and kindnesses. He was teaching her Cyvasse, he had smoothed her transition to court life considerably by easing tensions with the king, he was generous to the poor, and he had much in common with her. “He is gentle, intelligent, and strong. And he shows no sign of the lusts and deceits some claim the Dornish possess. Indeed, he is gentler and kinder than most at court, and shows more humility than men of far lower rank and position.” When Bran sent his sister a letter teasingly inquiring as to whether or not the prince was handsome, Sansa replied quite simply that he was.

Her last letter had excitedly told him that though Trystane had not yet confirmed it, she thought that Bran might be receiving a request sometime after the Harvest Festival. “He seemed quite pleased by the confirmation of the upcoming annulment of my marriage to Lord Lannister.”

It had seemed that her heart and head were in agreement.

The visions which had flashed through Bran’s head as he slept seemed to disagree with everything he had thought his sister’s future held.  

When Summer got him to the Heart Tree, Bran pulled himself from the cart and sat at the base of the great tree.  Summer pulled himself out of the harness, and trotted away into the wood.

Bran had worked with a saddlemaker to design a harness that Summer could put on and off without assistance.  Bran had insisted that he would not truss his wolf like a beast of burden. _I will never use my gifts to force my will on a living thing again.  Not after Hodor_. He would accept Summer’s help, but only when it was freely given.  

_Nor will I allow my mind to be used as the scene of someone’s pranks._

He reached out and touched the trunk of the weirwood tree.  Instantly, he was in the great cave and looking upon the corpse-like figure being consumed by roots.

“What are you playing at?!”

His teacher waited to acknowledge him. “I don’t ‘play’ at anything, Bran of House Stark. I observe. You should know that by now.”

“Yes, because you’ve never, ever altered my visions to suit your needs before,” the young lord said, “If you want me back in the caves again that badly, you needn’t send me images like that to do it.”

“I didn’t send you anything. You were meant to see whatever it is you saw, and likely for a good reason. What was it?”

Bran scowled. He needed Bloodraven and his teaching.  He was even fond of the man, at times.  But Bran he found it hard not to resent the greenseer,  especially as he began to understand the full scope of what he would be giving up thanks to the desires of the Old Gods, the Children, and Bloodraven himself.  H _e wants me back in the caves, but I am the Lord of Winterfell.  I am needed here, by the living.  Not by the ghosts in the tree roots._ While the Bloodraven liked to cast himself as a servant of the gods, Bran wasn’t sure he believed that all the man’s acts had pure motives. “As if you don’t know.”

His teacher sometimes made unconvincing pleas of ignorance.

“Come up here and touch my roots.”

Bran did this reluctantly, and the walls of the cave began to shimmer as his visions began to appear there. His heart sank as he watched his sister, clad in a shimmering gown of white and silver, walk up to the marriage altar in the Great Sept to shed a direwolf cloak in favor of a black and red dragon one. The one placing it on her with a nervous expression was their brother, Jon.

Bran cringed and tore his eyes away as the scene shifted.

“No!” His teacher told him, “The gods want you to see!”

Bran glared and looked as his sister walked into a sunny room where Jon sat at a desk. Sansa, clad in a white wrap-gown, pulled his chair away, stood before him, smiled, and began to unwrap her dress, revealing a lack of undersilk.

The Lord of Winterfell had seen hundreds of visions since his initiation into greenseeing began. Many of those visions were horrifically violent and terrifying. As a result, he’d lost a lot of his reservations about certain things. After eating human flesh with the jaws of one’s direwolf, seeing healthy, naked human flesh failed to make him bat an eye. Once, he’d blushed and looked away, instilled with the shame over “naughty” things that his Septa had taught him. All while his father was bringing him out to witness decapitations. The contradiction there was not lost on Bran. So as time went on, his only discomfort regarding nakedness tended to come from his condition and how difficult it made acting or processing on certain feelings.

Seeing Sansa naked, however, didn’t normally bother him. She was his sister and as far as Bran was concerned, any flesh of hers, as long as it was healthy and unharmed, was inconsequential. There were a couple of times he’d seen her nude. The worst was an awful vision he’d had of her shivering in bed at age twelve as Tyrion Lannister groped her. But the other time was when he and Summer accidentally walked in on her when she was emerging from the hot springs. He felt worse for her obvious embarrassment.  (He had been more preoccupied with Jeyne Poole, also naked and getting out.) To him, Sansa’s body was as interesting or shameful as a loaf of bread.

But now, in this context…

He almost gagged as Jon grinned and put his hand, then his mouth, to her breasts. Bran cringed and recoiled.  The vision vanished.  “I don’t think the gods want me to see this.”

“Must you be such a blushing maid, Bran?” The Lord of Winterfell could not help but notice a slight glint in the Bloodraven’s remaining eye.

“Blushing maid?! That’s my sister! With my brother! It’s filthy!”

“You are being absurd.” Bloodraven replied. “Jon Targaryen is not your brother by blood.  He was born of my house, not yours.”

“He’s a brother to me regardless. You took my legs. You’re not going to take my family too.”

“Jaime Lannister took your legs.”

“Your gods took them.” Bran didn’t want to have this argument again, though, so he continued, “How could he do such a thing?!”

One of the weirwood roots spread and snatched Bran’s wrist. An image of Sansa sinking into Jon’s lap appeared.

“White and silver…” Bloodraven mused, “Shiera used to wear white and silver…”

Bran yanked his arm back, stopping the vision again. “Stop it! That’s my sister!”

“Your sister is very beautiful. What man wouldn’t want to know such a woman?”

Bran cringed. Despite his complete lack of interest in “knowing” her in such a fashion--- part of the reason he found this so appalling---- he was aware his sister was beautiful. She was lovely the way their mother had been--- warm and bright-eyed and soft.

But clearly his appreciation of Sansa was quite different than that of his teacher’s. Being half a tree had not quelled his interest in matters of the flesh. You’ll never know how beautiful she is, no matter how many thousands of eyes you have, Bran thought resentfully.

He was sick to death of men looking at his sister as an object of lust.  She’s so much more than that.  Bran was sick of people hurting her, fighting over her, treating her like she was some sort of fancy prize in which they could spill themselves. He thought, when he sent her to court, that she’d have at least one man there who wouldn’t see her that way. _Please don’t let me be wrong. Jon would never betray me like that._

But doubts plagued him. _Has his mind gone that much?_ Bran witnessed one of Jon’s fits during his visit to Winterfell. It chilled him to the bone. Perhaps he is as mad as Rickon. Targaryens were prone to that sort of sickness of the mind. If Rickon could be lost, why not Jon? Two brothers succumbing to madness. Bran wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see anything again if his visions held things like that.

“Her brother,” Bran replied,  “Her brother should not want her, not like that.”

“Brothers have loved sisters in Westeros.  Many times.”  Bloodraven sounded almost bored by that fact.  “Jon is not her brother. Even in his heart, he knows that. He’s discovering now that he only ever had one sister in his heart.”

“ _Don’t speak of Arya!_ ” The Bloodraven didn’t get to talk about Arya. _He never warned me of what would happen to her, just like he never warned me about what would happen to Rickon, or what was in that paste, or what would happen to Jojen._

“Very well.” His teacher shrugged. “But honestly, Bran. With everything you’ve seen, this upsets you?”

“Of course it does!” Bran gaped at the greenseer. “Besides… this isn’t even right. Sansa will marry Trystane Martell of Dorne.”

“She will not, thank the gods,” Lord Bloodraven said, “And you will thank the gods for it as well, I imagine.”

“Why?!” Bran said, panicking. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I’m not sure. I watch, but my vision is clouded in the south. But if the gods have determined a future for her with Jon, then it is for the best.”

“The best for whom?”

“That is not for us to ask. However…” Bloodraven blinked and suddenly the image of Jon and Sansa reappeared. “…Your sister doesn’t seem too displeased with the arrangement. She’s even smiling!”

Bran’s face burned. “Stop it! This is vile! Incest!”

Bloodraven looked at him impatiently. “Incest? They’re cousins. Your father’s parents were cousins. The Sansa Stark your sister is named for wed her half-uncle Jonnel One-Eye Stark. One Sansa wed her half-Uncle Jonnel and now this Sansa weds her cousin Jon. When you’ve seen as much history as I have, you begin to notice these little patterns.”

“He once called her half-sister. What kind of deviant lusts for a woman they called ‘Half-sister’?”

“Have you forgotten to whom you are speaking?  I did, and so did many of my kin.” Bloodraven said sharply. “Your sister and cousin shall be wed, and their issue shall be trueborn princes and princesses.”

Bran ignored him. “I never should have promised Sansa her choice in husband. I should have betrothed her to one of my bannermen before she left.” They’d been eager enough. Sansa went to court with an hour guard at least two dozen strong. “This couldn’t be worse.”

“Cease this nonsense,” his teacher snapped, “I’ve seen far, far worse than this. Your sister has been the target of a boy who liked to have his men beat her for his amusement and a man who sold girls to brothels. She’s had men threaten to murder her, then demand ‘a song’ from her in their next breath.  If you had known what I’ve seen … men lusting for children, even babes. Men who could only find their release after they slit the throats of their lovers. I once walked in on my father sharing a bed with a mother and daughter when I was but three. When my father noted my presence, he grinned and kept going, even instructing the daughter to wave and tell me a story as he took her. There were rumors that the girl was his own bastard daughter, and he may have known and enjoyed that.”

Bran’s stomach turned. “Just because there are things that are worse--.”

“Do you believe Jon would ever harm your sister?”

“No.” They said Sansa encountered Jon during one of his fits, and even then, when he’d swung a blade at everyone else, he did not harm her.

“That makes him preferable to most men she’s been tied to. She shall be a princess, the wife of a hero, and her children may one day rule the North, which shall be tied to the crown by blood, and protected by dragons.”

Bran’s stomach sank. _Rickon shall never get better._ The Bloodraven said ‘may’, but Bran had the feeling it was his teacher’s lackluster attempt to placate him.

“It is a good match for them both,” Bloodraven continued, failing to notice Bran’s distress. His eyes was fixed upon the image of Sansa writhing in Jon’s lap. Overwhelmed with disgust, Bran yanked his hand and his mind away. The cave, Bloodraven, and his damned roots melted away.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Daenerys:

She sat over some city watch reports, hating all life except the one which grew inside of her when a pair of hands slipped over her eyes.

“I absolutely forbid you to look at another document. For the good of Westeros,” her husband whispered, bending down to kiss her neck. “Worry is bad for Prince Daeron.”

“Take your hands off,” she urged him. “My eyes are closed.”

He did and Dany waited for the shuffling of papers to end before opening them once more. _Alright, maybe there are two people I don’t completely hate_ , she thought, turning around and looking up at her smirking husband At least, not right now.

Aegon was a little too handsome to hate forever. Aside from his knowledge of this fact, it was the worst thing about him.

It felt so good sometimes, to see violet eyes and silver-gold hair in front of her. To hear an accent that spoke of an eastern upbringing. Aegon looked so young then, grinning so wide.

“And we’re sure it’s a boy, then?”

Aegon snorted. “Or Princess Rhaenys. Our prince or princess. Either way, worrying is bad.”

He pressed his temple to hers. “I want you to rest, my Queen. Relax. I’m quite determined that you should be relaxed. In fact…”

Her husband seized her, swooping her up in his arms. Daenerys laughed.

“You’re not to take one more step,” her husband instructed her.

“But the records…”

“I’m going to make love to you, then you’re going to sleep, then I’m going to read them for you,” Aegon replied in a hilariously lecturing tone. Sometimes he used that voice and it infuriated her. Sometimes he used that voice and it was adorable. This was the latter.

“You think to command the Mother of Dragons?” She asked as she wound her hands around Aegon’s neck.

“It is your wifely duty to obey your husband.” He said this with a smile, violet eyes dancing.

Her grip became tighter. “You know, you keep talking, and all I can hear is ‘please kick me in the stones.’”

Aegon threw his head back and laughed as he pushed through the doors to their bedchamber. “Those stones gave you the babe in your belly, my Queen.”

He fell onto the bed, taking her into his lap. Daenerys took the opportunity to push him flat onto the silken bedspread. She grinned and seized the lace of his doublet in her teeth. She crawled down his body on all fours, slowly revealing more and more of his chest. When his upper body was revealed, she nuzzled his silvery chest hair and took a deep breath.

Aegon’s fingers ran through her hair and slowly, he pulled her up to kiss him. “My perfect, fiery queen,” he muttered as they broke away for breath. “My Love. You know that? You know I love you, Wife?”

Dany giggled and began to untie her dress, slipping it up over her head. “I believe you, Husband. I return the feelings.”

Daenerys felt him stroke her breasts and winced.

“Sorry, I’ll be gentle.” He began to sit up, but she pushed him back.

“No. If I have to give up riding one kind of dragon, I won’t give up riding the other,” she said with a faint growl. She tried not to think too much of her children. I have a child inside me, she reminded herself, Danger must be avoided.

Still, she could enjoy this.

Dany slipped off of him. “You may rise, but only to strip.”

Aegon groaned. “I love it when you get bossy.”

That was true in the bedchamber, but not always elsewhere. But the queen put this aside and watched as her husband sat up to pull off his doublet and unlace his breeches. She liked watching his sinewy flesh, marked with fine white hair and the occasional scar, move and bare itself to her. Her husband was giving less of a fight than he usually did, and Dany guessed it was due to what was growing inside her. Usually, they had more drawn-out battles for dominance. Playful when they were happy, serious when they were angry. She tended to win.

But tonight there was no struggle, and as soon as he was properly nude, he lay back again, hands behind his head. Aegon gave her an expectant look. “My Queen?”

Daenerys smirked and threw a leg over his hips. Aegon watched her with a somewhat nervous eye. “Gentle, now.”

Their hands joined in midair, and Dany pushed her pelvis forward, running her mound along her husband’s length. The sensation from the contact rippled throughout her, and her grip on her husband’s hands grew tighter. She writhed against him, feeling the momentum build. “Ready to take to the air?” She gasped.

“Please!”

A night with her often ended with Aegon begging. She liked to hear him beg. He knew it, too. Dany smirked and shifted her hips.

Her opulent surroundings of alabaster, gold, and silk melted away and she felt like she was back along the tall white ghost grass, riding with the khalasaar.

Aegon shifted his hips and grinded them against her arse so she could feel his hardness. “Your dragon rises for you, My Queen.”she was back among the great silvery grasses she’d seen so many years ago, riding with Drogo and his khalasaar. She felt full and invigorated, her tiredness somehow fueling her.

Aegon cried her name and she cried his. A few more words escaped her lips, ones her tongue had struggled to learn when she was three-and-ten but which now came naturally to her. She felt the moon shine upon her.

The pressure within her built and Dany was a khaleesi again. When her peak took her, she bent down, seizing Aegon’s head in her hands and his lips with hers. Her lips, then her teeth. A great, guttural moan escaped from her husband as she dragged his lower lip between her teeth.

A rush of his seed filled her and Dany moaned, collapsing against her panting consort. Sweaty skin pressed against sweaty skin, and limbs tangled together. The plush bed returned, but Dany swore she could still smell the smoke of the khalasaar’s campfires. When opened her eyes, face pressed against her husband’s neck, she gazed at a nearby lamp.

Aegon stroked her hair again. “When I used to travel, used to wander the Free Cities and sail up the Rhoyne, I’d see all these statues of all these foreign goddesses. Beautiful, they were. Made of gold and brass and ivory and ebony and studded with jewels. Some had wings and some had fish-tails. Some were dressed in flowing gowns, some wore nothing at all. I used to look at them and think of you and how you’d be just as beautiful, just as magnificent.”

Dany’s heart ached. She loved it when he spoke like this. Viserys used to dream of jewels and the Seven Kingdoms. Dany used to dream of red doors and lemon trees. It made her feel so good, knowing that someone dreamed of her.

“Were you right?” She asked. “Am I all you dreamed of?”

“No.”

She looked up at him crossly. His lip was starting to bruise, but he smiled. “You’re far greater.”

Before she could speak, there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?!” Aegon demanded, sounding as annoyed as she felt. Who could be bothering them at this hour?

“I’m so sorry, your Grace! But I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t important!” Trystane’s voice. Dany’s eyes widened.

“One moment!” Aegon called out. He and Dany exchanged looks.

“He wouldn’t do this if it weren’t,” Dany insisted. Trystane was far too level-headed. She groaned and went to pull on her robe, tossing Aegon his. Her husband reluctantly got up, yanked it on, then went to the door.

The Prince of Dorne entered, his eyes narrowed and his brow sweating.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, but…”

“What is it, Trystane?” Aegon stepped forward and led his cousin over to their small table, hurrying to pour the man a drink. Trystane clasped his hands together.

“I have some… troubling news. “

“What?” Dany said impatiently.

Trystane hesitated. “I don’t know how I should tell you this, because I came by this information in an odd way. It concerns Lady Sansa Stark and her retinue.”

Dany’s heart raced. “Did one of her suitors harass you?” There’d been angry mutterings from the Northern party about Trystane and Sansa’s flowering attachment. Jon himself had told her of the prejudiced and bitter remarks some had made. She feared what would happen when the inevitable took place and a betrothal was announced.

“No, not one of them. It’s about another of her guards, the tall Brother.”

“What about him? He seems a decent sort,” Aegon said, sitting next to his cousin, “He’s broken up more than a couple of fights.”

He’s one part of her retinue I haven’t worried about, Dany thought wearily. As much joy and comfort as Lady Sansa’s personal company had given the dragon queen, her household continued create more than a few headaches. Jeyne Poole and the Brother were among the only exceptions.

“He may be Sandor Clegane, raper of the Saltpans.”

Dany’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Trystane sighed. “I haven’t been able to confirm it yet. And maybe I shouldn’t have inquired, but… As you know, Lady Sansa and I have formed a rather close bond over the last few weeks. So much so that I intend to, well, make a request. I felt that before anything official happened, I should look into her affairs somewhat and… this came up. Whispers as to the Brother’s identity. Apparently, though, measures have been taken to keep it quiet.”

 _No… Sansa would not…_ Dany couldn’t imagine her friend trying to shield a raper like that. She, like so many, had heard of the massacre there. _But Sansa of all people… She’s half Riverlander!_

Dany said as much. Trystane held up his hands. “I don’t think she knows, and I don’t think she’s the one shielding him. I think… for whatever reason… Lannister gold has found itself inside a few pockets in this situation.”

“Trystane!” Aegon exclaimed. Dany sighed. She knew of the mutual dislike between her Hand and the prince, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

“This is a serious allegation.”

Trystane squirmed. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I can’t confirm anything yet, but… I felt you should know. I only want to make sure Lady Sansa is safe. I… I care deeply for her.”

“Keep investigating, then.” Aegon said. “But… be careful, Cousin.”

Dany nodded. She made a mental note to speak to Lady Sansa or Jeyne about it. “I’ll look into it as well,” she said. Trystane looked at her in surprise.

“Your Grace?”

“You’re not the only one who cares about this court or this lady,” Dany admonished him. “She is my friend and she is Prince Jon’s cousin.”

“Of course.” Trystane got up. “Thank you for your help, your Grace. I hope… I hope I’m wrong and that this matter may be cleared up. The last thing in this world I want is for anything to hurt her.”

Despite the dark news, Dany couldn’t help but feel touched by the obvious concern the prince displayed. Aegon showed him out, then came back, shaking his head.

“Poor sod. He couldn’t save Myrcella Baratheon, it’s not surprising he’s so worried about this.”

Daenerys nodded, shuddering at the mention of the Lannister bastard. That poor girl had ended up butchered and dismembered, found in pieces in the alleys of Sunspear. According to Aegon, it haunted Trystane still.

The evening, now thoroughly dampened, ended with Dany slipping beneath the sheets with her husband, who held her gently.

“We need to handle the Northern situation,” he told her, “The second the festival is over.”

Daenerys nodded. “Send the honor guards home. I’ll make plans to provide a new guard for her. I’ll speak with Jon.”

“Good thinking. No more of this nonsense.” He kissed her forehead. “Do not fear. Our babe will be born, the Northern girl will be safely wed to Dorne, and everything will be at peace before you know it. Just… You don’t think Tyrion would really make arrangements for someone like that, do you?”

He said this last bit in a small, scared, childlike voice. Then it was Dany comforting him, stroking his cheek.

“No, of course not,” she told him, trying to sound surer than she was. _He’d have the means and access to do it. But why?_

 


	7. Brides and Babes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes meetings with his siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, guys! These last couple of months have been exhausting for both of us. The next chapter will come MUCH quicker though. Thanks to bbanzaiz for giving this the once-over! :)
> 
> Chapter co-beta'd with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)

Chapter Seven: Brides and Babes

Jon:

The clashing of metal was relentless, and that was how Jon wanted it. His kingly brother seemed less enthusiastic. Aegon’s face was a bright red from over-exertion as Jon went at him, light gleaming off his practice blade. Finally, furious, Aegon took a fall and called out that he yielded.

Jon stepped back, embarrassed by himself. He dropped his blade and lent a hand out to his half-brother. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Aegon took the hand and waved his brother off once he got to his feet. “You need to start finding more partners. My arse is still bruised from yesterday.”

For a while, all that existed was the sound of  blades, and it had an odd purity to it. But now other things were creeping into Jon’s awareness. Laughter and jokes from the other fighters surrounding them, whispers and giggles from the ladies watching, the smell of the earth beneath his feet.

Jon looked at the ground. “I can’t, you know that.”

He didn’t want to look at the other men training. Once, he’d spent hours walking back and forth among young men at arms, observing them, correcting them, helping them to become better fighters. But now he had to fear that loss of control. One of Lord Blackwood’s grandsons was sparring with a Redwyne nephew, and both were off balance. Jon knew he could help them. But he also knew that he could just as easily lose his mind and break one of their skulls if he tried.

He trusted Aegon to know the signs of an attack and disengage immediately. For all that Aegon could be infuriating -- petty, self-centered, and quick to anger – his brother had accepted Jon’s limitations without judgement.  Where other people seemed uncomfortable, Aegon had simply asked Jon what he should do during an episode – and then had done it without comment or complaint. 

_But others … so many people would like to see me brought low by an attack.  Or wouldn’t understand when I need to back away.  And if they press the attack at that wrong moment, who knows what I would do?  I spent too many years fighting for my life. And it would be easy to forget that this was only the training yard.  I could kill someone._

“I’d be willing!”

The two brothers turned at the accented voice. Aegon, his expression as light as his hair, smiled while Jon felt his gut twist. Trystane Martell strode towards them, eyes bright and teeth flashing, dressed in supple brown leather armor, holding a Morningstar. Jon’s stomach sank. A practice blade was dulled, but it was heavy enough. _One hit and I could crack all of his ribs. Or his skull._

“Cousin!” Aegon looked relieved to see the Prince of Dorne. “It is good to see you out here. The girls have been missing you.”

The king gestured to the collection of ladies clustered at a nearby fence. Trystane reddened and bowed his head. “I only have time for one girl now, my king. Besides, I don’t think it’s me that interests them. It’s another prince entirely.”

Jon studied his feet, scowling. Normally, he liked Trystane.   But the last thing he needed to be reminded of right now was the court's population of young women.

Trystane spun his mace in his hands. This was a practice version, with dulled points. A lightweight weapon. Trystane was a slight man, but Jon had observed him before and knew him to be quick and clever, his coordination impeccable. _A worthy opponent. But he’s never seen combat other than the training yard or the tourney field.  He’s little more than a boy._

Trystane smiled some more. “Come now, you’ve had enough of fending off swords, haven’t you? You know enough of that by now, but a sword is not the only thing a man can wield. Why not try alternating what weapons you face?”

“No.” Jon frowned and backed away. He was sure that Trystane meant well, but this was humiliating. He wanted to test himself, to try. It was a hunger. But he couldn’t. The Dornish prince had no idea what he was asking. Hurting Trystane would be too great a blow to too many people Jon cared for. He’d never forgive himself.

Some of the mirth died away from the prince of Dorne’s face. He reached out, “Come now, my prince, surely---“

“---No!” Jon swatted his hand away, more roughly than he meant. _Bloody hell. I thought I was getting better. Will I ever be able to touch someone without hurting them again?_

The yard grew quieter, and Trystane Martell’s dark eyes bored into his. There weren’t even any giggles. Just awkward silence.

“Forgive me, I simply… I simply can’t.”

Jon turned away, yanking at the straps of his practice armor. _At least his eyes weren’t blue._ Jon made the mistake of squaring off against an icy-eyed Templeton a year ago. It didn’t end well.

He had nearly given up the training yard after that incident, but Aegon had coaxed him back.  _I don’t want to give up training,_ Jon thought as he walked away.  It would be too easy to become a recluse, never seeing anyone other than his duties at court. _But maybe I should.  I’m not getting better.  If anything, I’m getting worse.  I can’t risk harming anyone._

 _But if I’m not fit to this, am I fit for anything?_ Jon didn’t know.  The life of most courtiers seemed to center around amusements.  Dances, hunting, hawking, sparring, feasts. Making small talk. Currying favour, and bestowing it. _I don’t know how to live that life.  I don’t know how to be a prince._

He did enjoy the duties Dany and Aegon had given him overseeing the armed forces of the crown.  Keeping tally of what nobles were in position to supply troops if needed, checking on the armaments of the knights and freeriders sworn directly to the Crown, consulting with the Lord Commander of the City Watch – these were duties that were familiar to Jon. He even found it satisfying to ensure that the fighting men had what they needed to keep themselves safe. But even so, he found that he had to be careful.  Some days he found himself obsessing over lists, imagining battles that were unlikely to come. 

 _Anyone could do this,_ he told himself on the bad days.  _Dany and Aegon are making the real peace.  Even Trystane, as Master of Laws, he does far more to contribute to the governance of the realm than I do.  My duties are just busy-work, to keep a broken man feeling like he is doing something of value._

The walls of his apartments surrounded him for the rest of the day. He wrote some letters and saw to his weapons. He didn’t want to speak to anyone.  

So of course, his half-brother came prancing in at sunset with a flask of Arbor Gold in hand.

Jon was sitting at his private dining table at that moment, staring at a still-full plate when Aegon set the flask down with a heavy thud. “I spoke to Trystane. He understands.” 

Jon glanced up at Aegon. His half-brother with his purple eyes and silver-gold hair and silken clothes. With his devilish grin and easy rapport with others and his fiery temper that everyone seemed so eager to forgive. His king.

“Do you?”

The smile faded from Aegon’s face. “Maybe… Maybe not. But if I don’t understand, I can at least acknowledge that. But, Brother…you’re so much better now.”

Aegon called him kin so easily. Jon felt immense guilt over that. _My brother was Robb Stark.  Bran and Rickon are my brothers. Samwell Tarly._

Jon forced a light-hearted tone he didn’t feel. “Tell that to your bruised arse.” Even to his own ears, it felt flat.

Aegon snorted. “You know me, I’m the dramatic sort. And… I don’t think you’d have hurt Trystane.”

“Maybe you think that, but you don’t know it. I didn’t fight to save this realm just so I could hurt the people in it.”

Aegon’s face twitched. “You know what? You’re annoying. Listen to your king. In the last year and a half, you’ve had maybe five attacks. And you’ve been much  better since Sansa came  to King’s Landing. Now that your cousin looks likely to be  marrying mine, with Lord Bran’s permission, she’ll be around to help you more, I’m sure. Trystane is Master of Laws, after all, and his houseshold will remain at court.  You’ll continue to improve, I’m sure.” 

There was something in Aegon’s eyes then. Jon leaned back and surveyed his brother. There was something. Jon had caught Daenerys looking sideways at Sansa the other day – a look of suspicion. Jon knew that the northern suitors had been causing trouble.  He hoped Aegon and Dany weren’t keeping something from him. 

“Is there anything you wish to tell me, Aegon?”

Another twitch, and Aegon looked searchingly at Jon Then his expression shifted, and he smiled. “Yes, actually.” A faint gleam came to his eyes. “You’re going to be an uncle.”

It took Jon a second to process these words, as at first they made no sense. _Bran and Rickon are mere boys and Sansa is--- Oh._

But the moment he registered Aegon’s meaning, he suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of happiness--- not to mention relief. An enormous smile came to his face. He stood, clasping Aegon’s hands in his. “Congratulations, Brother! That is amazing news!” 

Aegon’s eyes danced a bit, and Jon thought he noted some relief in his brothers expression as well “Dany and I weren’t sure when to tell you but… We’re so thrilled.”

“How long have you known?” 

“A couple of weeks. She hasn’t bled, she is sick, various other things… Nothing you want to hear about. But yes.”

Jon grabbed flask poured. Both of them raised their cups. “To the child,” Jon told him, grinning, “May you and Dany be granted a strong, healthy son.”

_Please, please, let it be a boy. A strong, healthy, clever boy._

The inheritance laws surrounding the Iron Throne were strict placing all legitimate male relatives ahead of trueborn daughters. If Dany and Aegon had a son, it was no issue. But Rhaegar and Lyanna had wed before Jon’s birth. A princess would fall behind Jon in the succession.

Daenerys’ marriage to Aegon had been necessary to secure her place on the throne. While that match did eventually lead to love, their union was more compelled than chosen.  As Rhaegar’s eldest son, Aegon was rightful king, and Jon was his heir. But Daenerys was the real power behind the Targaryen’s return to the throne. With the marriage, an accordance was struck for the current monarchy, granting Dany the title of Queen Regnant instead of consort and placing her on equal footing with her husband. _None of us would be here without Dany.  Aegon knows that, and resents it._  

In Jon’s opinion, Daenerys was the most suited to rule of the three of them. Unlike Aegon, she had actually pulled herself up from almost nothing. Even without Westeros, she was still Queen of Meereen, and though that region was ruled far more by a council these days, she had been the one to stabilize the area and hold it after it nearly fell into chaos following her first invasion.  

And unlike Jon, Daenerys wanted the Iron Throne. While Jon once fantasized about being a great lord or king, those were little more than a child’s fancies. Dreams he had where he wasn’t even himself, but Daeron the Young Dragon or Aegn the Conqueror. The truth was, he’d rather spend the rest of his life freezing his balls off at the Wall than sit the Iron Throne. If it came to that, of course, he would force himself upon it and rule---- the Watch was gone, and after all the chaos, the people of Westeros needed a stable leader more than they needed a freezing, celibate soldier. But Jon prayed daily for that not to come to pass. He did not feel like a king, and he was willing to wager that he didn’t think like one.He would rather wear ringmail and leathers than a crown any day.

With the birth of a son, the crown became less and less of a possibility.

And it was certainly a concern. Daenerys was young and healthy, but her fertility was… questionable. She’d fallen pregnant by her first husband, Khal Drogo, almost immediately, but that ended in a freakish stillbirth. Daenerys, for all of her strength, was a very small woman, and no level of toughness or strength could change issues like narrow hips and small stature. Daenerys likewise had miscarried once (a miscarriage that was extreme enough that the master advised the royal couple to put of trying again for another year) with Aegon, and apparently before she was wed to him she miscarried the child of one of her lovers.

Jon worried for her. And now that he knew of her pregnancy, despite his happiness, a fearful ache settled in his stomach. He’d seen Daenerys Targaryen tame and command her immense dragons, he’d seen her wield a Dothraki Arakh half her size. But no amount of the usual sort of strength could mean much when it came to birth. His mother  Lyanna had been  a fierce, strong girl. Meera Reed told him of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. She, at fifteen, had unhorsed three anointed knights. But that didn’t save her in the birthing bed. Jon had seen Dalla, a strong wildling woman, die screaming bringing Mance Rayder’s son into the world.

And Danerys had been so young when she had become pregnant by Drogo.  Jon and Robb had received a talk from Maester Luwin when they came to be of marriageable age. They had spent much of it shifting in their seats as the old man explained the dangers of the birthing bed. “It is not just a matter of the womb beginning to mature, but of her whole body as well,” Luwin had said, “A body that young cannot withstand the rigors of childbirth well. The humours must balance, and the body strengthen.  A man who lays with a bride too young may kill her, and his sons – or render her unable to give him more.”  Then Luwin had explained his points – with illustrations.  Jon stil shuddered at the memory. _What were Illyrio, Varys, and Viserys thinking?_ Jon often wondered. Even grown up now, Dany was small. _She and Aegon might have two children already had she not been wed to Drogo so young._

Jon didn’t know how anyone would cope if Daenerys died. He and Aegon had learned to control the dragons to some degree, but their bonds with the beasts were nothing in comparison to what the queen had. And he wasn’t sure how much control they’d have if she were to die. And Aegon… Jon cared for his half-brother, but he also knew how much the man needed his wife. Daenerys was the more mature one, the stronger one, and she had already suffered grievous losses and grown stronger from them. But Jon was less sure of Aegon.

His half-brother had nearly crumbled after he was forced to execute Jon Connington for bringing the Greyscale to Westeros. So crushed was he by this loss that Daenerys had left him behind when she flew for the Wall to end the War of the Dawn. In theory, it was because she “needed him” to hold King’s Landing, but the truth was, she had numerous military commanders and allies to do that work for her--- There was Tyrion, Arianne and Doran Martell were still alive at the time, as was Varys. Even with their aid, Aegon nearly lost the capital while Dany was away, defying the advice of his councillors to allow followers of R’hollor, feeling greyscale, into the city.  The decision provoked fighting in the streets between the refugees and  the remains of the Sparrows. Aegon managed at the last moment to save the city, but at the cost of both Varys and Arianne Martell. The Princess of Dorne had been captured by Lannister agents during the mob---captured and killed.

It was a failure that weighed heavy upon Aegon. Jon believed that mistake was half the reason the great council agreed to make Aegon and Dany co-regnants in the first place. But even so, after the loss of Jon Connington, Aegon supposedly wasn’t the same. Dany said he was less bitter, less cynical, and less suspicious before then. She and Jon both believed it was partly why Aegon doted on Trystane so much. They were just happy he chose someone so level-headed and decent as his companion. But still, Aegon was weakened by the loss of Connington.

Dany, however, lost both Drogo and her son and emerged from that as the Mother of Dragons. She took the pain of Jorah Mormont’s loss and it taught her caution and helped her become Queen of Westeros at long last.

Jon was sure that despite the pain it would cause her, Daenerys could handle losing Aegon and still carry on competently. Of the reverse situation, Jon could not be sure. His brother wasn’t the most level-headed of men. He could be kind, brave, thoughtful, intelligent, and intuitive, but he could also be cruel, bitter, impulsive, and dangerous. Jon looked at Aegon sometimes and wondered. _Losing Daenerys could be his Duskendale._

 _There would be only so much I could do, especially if Aegon becomes paranoid._ His half-brother professed to love him well now, but he still carried some enmity about the Starks. _His father abandoned his mother for mine, my mother’s house helped bring his down._  As of now, Aegon’s attitude towards the Starks had softened considerably---- Sansa’s upcoming nuptials to Trystane had done much to improve Aegon’s opinion of them. But if his half-brother went mad, who knew? Aerys Targaryen once loved and trusted Tywin Lannister implicitly before deciding to openly antagonize the man, strip him from office, and take his heir from him. Many of Aerys’s “favorites”, in fact, met grisly ends when the Mad King’s fancy took him. There were even rumors that the king meant to kill his heir, fearing insurrection on Rhaegar’s part. _If that happens again, who knows what I could do to stop him from tearing the world apart. And I myself am not of entirely sound mind._

Jon’s stomach sank as he drank from his cup, his eyes falling upon his brother. Dark purple eyes twinkled at him, and Jon felt immense guilt wash over him. _He is your brother,_ Jon reminded himself, _and he does love you. He’s made mistakes, but he’s a good king and he’s displayed no true signs of great madness. Many men have hot tempers, it does not make him our grandfather born again. His greatest confidante is Trystane. If he is wise enough to choose a man like that to be his closest friend, then he is far safer. And Daenerys is strong. She is not giving birth in a Wildling tent in the far North as a battle rages around her, nor a half-abandoned tower in Dorne with no one but guards attending her. She shall be cared for in the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast, attended by the finest Maesters and midwives in the world. She will spend her pregnancy behind these walls, surrounded by friends and family, sleeping on a feather bed, eating the best food, given the best care, protected by the finest men in the realms. All in the heart of spring._

Still, he worried. He worried for Dany, he worried for Aegon, he worried for the realm.

“Please know, Brother,” Jon said after a long pause, “Know that I will always… Always be willing to do whatever it takes to protect and serve your family and your realm. You and your son shall always have the strongest support and devotion from me. I intend to see my nephew sit the Iron Throne and be a great king, and whatever I can do to make that a reality, I will.”

Aegon smiled more greatly. “I believe you, Brother. You were always more Aemon the Dragonknight than Maegor the Cruel.”

Jon seized on that. There was something he had been pondering for some time.  “When your son is born, when there is a place available, I could… I could join the Kingsguard. Pledge my life to---“

“---No!” Aegon set his cup down. “I won’t hear of it. If you think for a moment I’m letting you get away that easy, you’re mad. This is one child, not even born yet. And until I definitely have a son or two to secure the throne, you may be the future of our House. I cannot, and will not, take chances. And if it is a girl---“

“---You could change the laws,” Jon said, eyes growing brighter, “Aegon, these laws, they’re ridiculous. Archaic. Change them. Give your daughters their rights. Don’t let them play third fiddle to some uncle who doesn’t want the crown anyways. Call a great council, alter the rules.”

Aegon’s mouth twisted. “I can’t do that. That’s utter madness. We only just got the throne back, and you want me to completely change the traditions of it, the traditions that have guided it for centuries?”

 Jon sighed, exasperated. “Aegon, this is a new age. By your side rules the woman who brought dragons back from the dead.  You’re king, the true king, and your queen commands the three most dangerous creatures known to man. She saved the entire realm from the White Walkers. She’s the Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai reborn, if such a thing was a reality.---“

“Yes, yes, I know, Daenerys, the great hero. I suppose I should just give up and let women dominate me entirely, eh? Put the future of the realm in petticoats as I fade from relevance and history?” His lip was curling a bit as he said this, but there was hurt in his eyes. Jon hesitated. He knew how his brother felt.

 _Remind him of who he is._ “Aegon, you are just as much a reason that this should happen. Yes, you, in particular. You may be a silver-haired, violet-eyed Targaryen, but you’re the blood of the Rhoyne just as much as you are of Old Valyria. You’re not just Fire and Blood, you’re Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You’re the descendent of Nymeria of the Rhoyne, the descendent of countless great women rulers. For pity’s sake--- yes, you’re the descendent of Aegon the Conqueror, a man who never could have taken the Seven Realms without his two sisters. But you’re also the product of the one ruler who managed to defy the dragons as the Kings of the Rock, the North, the Reach, and even Harren the Black in Harrenhal fell. Who was the one Westeros monarch who made the dragons go home and kept her realm independent from the dragons for another hundred years? Meria Martell.”

Sansa had been telling him this story the night before. She’d been studying up on Dorne and its history, and found the whole thing utterly delightful. She’d always idolized the beautiful, clever Queen Rhaenys, but she’d found the princess who defied her almost as fascinating. “Rhaenys stood in the throne room at Sunspear, before fat old Meria on her throne, and Meria told her that it wouldn’t matter how many dragons came and reigned fire upon them, that the people of Dorne would not yield. No amount of dragonfire and warfare could subdue the Dornish for long--- even Dareon the Young Dragon’s conquest didn’t permanently subdue them. They only came into the fold with a marriage years and years later. And to this day, the Martells remain princes and princesses.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that you come from a history of great rulers, many of them women. One of your ancestors was the only one who could defy the dragons, and she was a woman.. So is it so hard to accept the idea that a daughter of yours--- the daughter of Daenerys, the descendent of Rhaenys, Visenya, Aegon, Nymeria of the Rhoyne, and Meria Martell can’t be a more ideal heir to your legacy than her uncle? I’m half Stark, the descendent of the King Who Knelt. Your daughter would be the daughter of the Mother of Dragons, Visenya, Rhaenys, Nymeria of the Rhoyne, and Meria Martell. Tell me, who would you prefer as the future leader of the dragon lords? Change the law, Aegon. Do it for your wife and children. Do it for the realm.”

Aegon took a deep breath. “And what precedent would that set? The Dornish were brought into the fold with the understanding that they’d be a realm apart. But if the Iron Throne adopted their customs, what would that say for the rest of the realm? Every other seat in this country puts men first. Our vassals would mislike it, they’d worry over us upsetting their succession.”

Jon groaned. “You don’t have to be like Dorne then. Sons may still be favored, but place daughters ahead of their uncles. Every other House in the Seven Realms operates this way. And it will make the laws less confusing. I mean, what if I do have children, but the both of us have only daughters? Who is heir to the Iron Throne then? I would be ahead of your girl, but what of my child? Are there provisions for that?”

“No,” Aeon said, biting his lip, “It never came up.”

“Well, the number of Targaryens these days is limited enough that it certainly could.” Jon smiled and put his hand on his half-brother’s shoulder. “Speak to Daenerys, Tyrion, and Trystane. Call for a council. Protect your children’s rights. Protect the realm.”

Aegon set his cup down. “After the festival, perhaps.”

Jon nodded, pleased. He saw his sister in the back of his mind then, nine-years-old, sitting on the fence in the practice yard, cursing her shoddy needlework. _“The woman is important too!”_

His brother took his cup back. “I have a condition, Brother.”

Jon’s stomach sank. “What?”

“You have to start becoming more active in the court. And within two years time, I want to see you wed.”

Several shocked, sputtering seconds followed this. _For pity’s sake, I had hoped this would take some of the pressure off of me._ “Brother, I’m---“

“You’re better, Jon. And it’s time you started acknowledging all the attention and using it to your advantage. Even if I have a half dozen little princes and princess, all of them ahead of you, House Targaryen needs alliances. We intermarried for far too long. The last King Aegon had the right of it. If we had had more strong Houses tied to us, we likely never would have fallen. Westeros has never been able to truly accept unity, and the only way that will happen is if the Houses are joined together--- at one source. Rhaenys tried to link the realms up by making them intermarry. We need them to marry us. The last Aegon tried to do this, but he was thwarted by fortune and his children, so all he got was enough Targaryen blood sprinkled into the Baratheons to give them a claim. We need to tie things together more thoroughly. There are some promising things on the horizon--- Our cousins’ marriage for example. Trystane has Targaryen blood and is tied to me. Sansa is tied to you, she’s the descendent of the Tullys and the Starks, and she’s tied to the Arryns. A child of theirs would be kin to five of the nine great Houses. My son marries their daughter, and my grandchild will be just as connected. You wed someone with links to other great houses – the Lannisters or the Tyrells-- and our great-grandchildren may end up having every variety of Westeros noble blood available. Every Great House directly tied by blood and matrimony to the Iron Throne, once and for all. The Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men brought together in one cohesive clan.”

Jon turned away. He was never one who had to worry about dynasties or marriage. He knew the duty expected of a trueborn son, even if he had never expected it to apply to himself.  _But even if I had envisioned marriage, it was as a whole man, not a broken shell. How could I do that to a girl with no idea what she was wedding?  How could I ask a girl to lay next to me as I dream of horrors she can’t even imagine?_

“Come now, Brother,” Aegon said playfully, “It isn’t as if there isn’t a girl for you. Half the ladies of the court are tripping over themselves to be yours. Many of them pretty. Some of them beautiful.”

 _Don’t remind me._ Bonding with Sansa had been tough, but one thing they had been able to relate to one another over was the cavalcade of people setting their cap at them. Sansa’s Northern suitors were becoming more pushy and obnoxious by the day, while Jon couldn’t go anywhere without a trail of giggles following him. And it wasn’t just giggling girls, but ambitious women like Margaery Tyrell, still unmarried years after Tommen Baratheon was gone, experienced in seizing crowns. She’d often arranged “meetings regarding the budget” in her capacity as the unofficial Mistress of Coin. It wasn’t always easy to refuse her. Or to ignore the other women. It could be exhausting.

But he thought of something his cousin had said last night on the matter, _“It will be so nice to be settled, at long last.”_

“I don’t… I… Those girls are only interested in my title.” _They flutter around, pretending to be the damsels in distress from songs, hoping to gain a crown by acting like they need me to save them. Pampered girls shielded from the winter’s cold, puppets having their strings pulled by ambitious fathers who are more pimp than parent._ He hated this game.

Aegon sighed. “Yes, an unfortunate consequence of having one. But I’m giving you two years, and I will let you make your own choice of bride, Jon.  Given what is at stake that is a considerable consession. But after those two years, if you haven’t made a decision, I will have to step in. People are getting nervous. Years have passed, and there are still only three Targaryens left. We have the dragons growing bigger by the day, with no way of knowing when they’ll start breeding. You’ve done great things for this country, no one is denying that. But you need to be able to handle things in peace as well as in war. It was a marriage that brought an end to the bloodshed between the Iron Throne and Dorne. Weapons and dragons can put an end to war. But marriage and family will be what keeps another one from starting. Think on it.”

His brother left him to do exactly that. Jon sat alone at the table for a good solid hour, staring at his cup, looking for answers and finding none.

A knock on his door heralded another  visitor. Sansa came in, dressed rather shockingly in a sleeveless, low-cut gown of violet brocade. At her heels was Ghost, who had been missing for a few hours. Jon managed to smile a little. As awkward as things could be between him and his cousin, the same could not be said for his wolf. Ghost had bonded with Sansa at once, and she doted on him, combing out his fur and giving him treats.

Jon forced a smile on his face. “So that’s where you’ve been, my friend,” he said, ruffling the beast’s ears. He looked at his cousin. “Have you stolen him from me for good?”

“Oh, no,” Sansa told him, laughing a little. “But I’m afraid that… well… My usual protector was occupied this evening. And your gallant friend here stepped in to take his place.”

That was a surprise. Like everyone else, Jon had noticed the ridiculously tall, hooded brother of the Faith that followed Sansa like a shadow. In the time that Sansa had been at court, Jon had only exchanged a few words with the man, but it was enough to know that her devout guardian took his duties very, very seriously. Even when Sansa visited Jon’s chambers in the evenings, the Brother stayed right outside the door, unmoving. He’d even gone with Sansa to the Sept to be examined.   Jon had wondered if the man might have been with the Faith Militant prior to its dissolution, and if he felt he was fulfilling some vow, but he did not want to stir up trouble by asking.

“Occupied?” Jon asked, “By what?”

“Speaking to the palace guard, actually,” Sansa told him, “Apparently they were worried about my safety at the festival. My friend has been quite on edge lately. The Northmen make him nervous. It is all a bit excessive.  They’ll be heading home soon.  But he is kind to be so concerned.”  She stroked Ghost’s fur.  “Apparently my friend considered your wolf one of the few beings he could trust to watch over me.”

Jon smiled and ruffled Ghost’s fur once more fondly. “He’s a loyal creature.”

“That’s what my friend says. He likes dogs, and he says he may like wolves as well.”  Sansa’s eyes went to Jon’s plate, and her lips pursed. “You haven’t eaten your supper.”

Jon took the plate and set it on the ground. At once Ghost descended upon the now cold remains of his evening meal. “I’m not hungry.”

Sansa sighed. “Jon, I’m going to call for some new food to be brought. You’re going to eat it. I have had too lovely an evening so far to let you ruin it.”

“You had dinner with Trystane?” Jon eyed Sansa’s dress. The fabric was undoubtedly costly, and it fluttered around her at every moment, delicate-looking as a butterfly’s wings. Her shoulders, her arms, her collarbone, right down to the tops of her breasts were bare, and around her hips hung a length of indigo fabric embroidered in seed pearls. His cousin was stunning, but unlike herself. Instead of harshly composed, reserved, practiced, with that hardened, haunted look in her blue eyes, she seemed a girl again, her steps lighter, eyes brighter, her smile less fixed. It was if she’d shed a great weight off her shoulders along with the usual fabric that covered her.

Like the announcement of Daenerys’s pregnancy, this gave Jon conflicted feelings. Seeing his cousin happy warmed his heart. At the same time, he worried for hers. Sansa had become less guarded in recent weeks, certainly, more easy-going. But it also meant that she was more vulnerable. Jon knew his cousin had grown strong and smart and tough since the wars. But he couldn’t help but remember the naïve, silly, sweet little girl she’d once been and how that girl was torn down. To this day, Jon felt immense guilt over what happened to his family. Though he knew he’d done the right thing staying with the Watch, there was a part of him that told him he should have protected them. Arya was gone, Rickon mad. Even Sansa was damaged. Arya was gone. He’d failed to save his little sister, and he’d never forgive himself if he let anything happen to Sansa. _If Trystane Martell hurts her, I’ll break him, family ties be damned._

It was something he’d made clear to his brother several days ago, when Sansa came back from the Sept now legally and officially recognized as a virgin, and the forthcoming annulment had been announced. Trystane had eagerly requested to be Sansa’s escort at the festival. For propriety’s sake, it was decided Jon and Trystane should share those duties, but everyone agreed to that compromise. That was when Jon took Aegon aside and told him that under no circumstances was his Martell cousin to lay a hand on his cousin. “Before or after they’re married. I don’t care. One false move, and you may have a war on your hands.”

Aegon had snorted and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Brother. Trystane’s Dornish, for pity’s sake.”

Still, Jon felt obligated to watch over his cousin to some degree. He wanted her to make her own decisions, but he also didn’t want her hurt. Trystane, he knew, was probably the best match he could hope for. Not just because of his rank, either. As Aegon said, the man was Dornish, and despite the ignorant stereotypes that plagued those people, that actually meant Sansa was likely safer with him than she would be with anyone else. In any other part of the country, Sansa would legally be the property of whatever man she married. Her husband could beat, rape, and control her as he chose. In Dorne, from the prince to the lowest peasant, if a man beat his wife, he was beaten himself. It was something enforced to the strictest letter. Even a former ruling Prince, Dareos Martell, was once required to answer to his goodbrother Lord Yronwood when his wife was seen wandering the halls of Sunspear with a black eye. Prince Dareos ended up being deposed and replaced by his son and heir, Prince Arman, great-grandfather to Trystane--- another story Sansa had shared with him. Wives of Dorne kept their own household, property, and names. They were protected and free. Sansa would be allowed to return North whenever she wished and stay there just as long (once she’d given Trystane an heir). Trystane’s own mother was allowed to return to Norvos and live separately from her husband throughout the rest of her life. If Sansa were to be safe with anyone, it would be with a Dornish husband. On top of that, Trystane was gentle and kind and seemed to adore her.

But still, Jon couldn’t help but worry. What if things were ruined between them? What if Sansa’s heart was broken? And despite the kind laws in Dorne regarding the fairer sex, there were still aspects of the Dornish that Jon couldn’t help but think about. He eyed his cousin’s bare skin and felt a tightening in his chest, remembering the fact that Trystane’s Uncle Oberyn had eight bastard children by five different women. And Jon knew the Prince of Dorne wasn’t exactly above indulging certain lusts himself. He’d behaved himself since he started courting Sansa, but before her arrival to court, the prince had made trips to the Street of Silk at least twice a week. One morning, Aegon had laughed about walking in on his cousin with not one, not two, but three naked women still in his bed from the night before.

 _Is he truly abstaining, or is he just being more discreet?_ Jon wondered, _If it is the former, how much longer is he going to stand this celibacy after taking three women a night?_ No, likely Trystane was just being more careful so as not to humiliate his future betrothed. Jon wondered if Sansa knew. He wondered if the Prince of Dorne would be able to control himself. There were whores, then there were beautiful maidens of the highest birth, officially declared to be completely untouched. _And walking around bare-shouldered and lovely, thoroughly in love._ Jon made a mental note to send Ghost with Sansa and Trystane more often.

He just hoped Trystane wasn’t hiding any little Sands anywhere. _She doesn’t need that in her life._ Then he shook himself, and had to repress a rueful smile.  _I never thought I would understand Catelyn Stark’s point of view on that particular issue._

Sansa smiled, went to go give orders to a page outside the door, then went to sit across from him. “I did eat with Trystane. We had dinner in the gardens of the Maidenvault. Figs, roast lamb with fire peppers, blood oranges, a fine flask of red to wash it down. It burned my mouth a bit, but I’m going to have to get used to it.”

“Very romantic,” Jon said, nodding. He glanced at her dress again. “Did you wear that?”

Sansa stood and turned, her skirts flying out around her. “Do you like it? I thought I’d wear something a bit more suited for a Dornish climate. I hired a dressmaker originally from Planky Town. I wanted to surprise him.”

“I’m sure he was surprised,” Jon said, pursing his lips. He remembered one time when Arya randomly announced to the high table at Winterfell that “Septa Mordane says that Sansa’s starting to grow a bosom.” The older Stark girl had shrieked and gone beat red, spending the next several days tugging on loose tunics and furs wraps to cover her chest. _Now here she is dancing about with half her chest hanging out._

“Well, he ended up surprising me as well.” Sansa held up the long length of indigo fabric and wrapped it around her head, covering everything but her eyes. “To shield me from the sun. Trystane says he couldn’t stand it if his country’s sun burned my skin. I told him that I would be happy to turn as brown as him. But he said that such a thing was unacceptable, that he loves how my skin looks like milk. He says it makes my hair look even redder.”

“So will you remain veiled for the rest of your days, then?” Jon asked.

“Absolutely not. I won’t let my skin _burn,_ of course. But I would like to become bronzed and golden. I’ll stay veiled when we’re travelling on the sunny days and I have to spend hours outside. But I also intend to feel the warmth on my body. If I’m no longer milk-white, my husband will have to make do. I’m not marrying into the desert just to hide from the sun.” She laughed and uncovered her face. Then she began folding the garment in her lap. “Still, it’s a beautiful veil, don’t you think?”

Jon shrugged. “It’s pretty. Very fine.”  _Expensive,_ Jon thought, noting the pearls.

“Too fine, really, for him to give to me before we’re actually betrothed. But I’ll wait until after we are officially intended to wear it in public. In the meantime, I’m expanding my wardrobe in other ways.”

The door opened and a fresh, hot plate of venison stew with brown bread and creamy cheese was brought in. Jon felt his cousin’s eyes upon him as the plate was set down. There was an awkward pause. Jon sighed, took his spoon, and took a bite. The stew, surprisingly, was completely pleasurable. It was then Jon realized that he was, indeed, hungry. He dug in. Satisfied, his cousin continued.

“I have a few ensembles for the festival planned. One thing--- something eastern--- in particular that I’m excited about. But it reminds me, what are you planning on wearing?”

Jon swallowed. “I have formal wear.”

“Would you mind terribly if I looked at what you’re planning? Maybe let me make some alterations if they’re needed?”

Jon sighed and shrugged. “Do as you wish, just don’t make me look like some over-adorned Braavosi merchant prince.”

Sansa laughed. “No, dark and dour, I promise. I’m glad you’re being cooperative about it, though.”

“It’s not the most intrusive decision someone has made about my life recently.”

Sansa leaned forward. “Oh?”

 _Go ahead and tell her. Where is the harm?_ He recounted his conversation with Aegon, leaving out the part about the baby. Sansa smiled at his dismay about the ultimatum.

“Well, he does have a point.  You should wed, and if you have the choice of brides you are more fortunate than many.  I could help you, you know. I know a bit about matchmaking. And politics. And reading courtiers. I could help you steer clear of the Margaery Tyrells and the Jeyne Westerlings alike.”

Jon considered this. Sansa wasn’t lying about her expertise—she’d made quite a few successful matches throughout the North, Riverlands, and even the Vale over the last couple of years. _And she does know the court. I could use the help._ “I’m not sure I’m ready to pursue anyone.”

“Well, we have two years. If you like, we could wait until I’m wed to start. That won’t be for several moons. It’ll give you time to prepare a bit. And we’ll go slow. I’ll introduce you to a few nice, suitable girls, with good hearts and loyal families.  Nothing too public or showy. Whatever you wish. I just thought maybe you might want some help. I would like to help you.”

 _I know._ Jon smiled. “Alright,” he told her, “But only when I think I’m ready.”

“Of course, not until then.”

His heart softened a bit and he smiled. _I guess we’ll be looking out for one another._


	8. How Things are Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the festival doesn't go quite as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to BBanzaiz for her beta work!!!
> 
> Chapter co-written with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid)

Chapter: How Things are Wound

Sansa:

“Do you think we folded it properly?” Sansa asked Jeyne. She peered at herself in the mirror.

They’d followed the instructions from the Meereenese maid as carefully as they could. After all, what was the point of wearing a tokar if you couldn’t do it properly? She wanted to pay a little tribute to Meereen, and such efforts could be undermined by the slightest mistake.  The instructions had been clear that the garment needed to be tight, or it might unravel.

But this … she had specified a tokar appropriate for a young, unmarried woman.  What had arrived was a length of soft, clinging silk in white and silver.  The material was far thinner and more sheer than what she had seen on the Ghiscari representatives at court, most of whom were on the elderly side.  Even Lady Lyria’s garments were dignified, usually made from beautiful brocades, perfectly draped.  

 _I don’t want to look a fool in front of Lyria._ She didn't like looking a fool in front of anyone, but Lord Tyrion's mistress was especially cultured and learned, and did not suffer fools easily. Lyria was Meereenese as well.  _What if I ended up insulting her?_

Jeyne watched her from the back, steely-eyed as always. She started chewing on her lower lip _._

Sansa felt her heart sink.  “Does it look wrong?” she asked, looking at herself and the beautiful fabric sadly.

Perhaps she shouldn’t wear this tonight. The festival started tomorrow, and two days and nights of it were devoted to the East. A more appropriate occasion for this garb. This evening, though, was an informal get together for the royal family and their closest inner circle. Sansa had wanted to surprise Daenerys with her little tribute to the people of Slaver’s Bay. But she’d already tested the waters a bit with her Dornish dress -- an outfit that Jon told her had drawn the ire of some of her Northern suitors. While her cousin told her this with a smile and a laugh, Sansa didn’t want to go too far and shame the both of them.

She so wanted the dinner to go well.   _Trystane will be there._  The anticipated annulment had just been formally announced.  Her Dornish suitor would be free to pay her court openly.  Her stomach fluttered.   _At court less than three moons,_ she thought.   _What a whirlwind this has been._

“Turn around and look at yourself from the rear,” Jeyne said.

Sansa did as directed.  She could clearly see the outline of her backside. She gasped.  No Westerosi garment would ever cling to a woman’s behind.  The lady’s bosom might be displayed, but never, ever, one’s rear.  

“Too much?” she asked Jeyne, expecting a yes. Her giddy excitement was beginning to be replaced by sadness. She had envisioned having fun tonight, making Trystane fetch and carry for her while she held up her pretty fringed garment.  But she trusted Jeyne’s judgment.  She would have to change into a dull, ordinary Westerosi dress.

Her friend stared for a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, sod it,” Jeyne started to laugh.  “Keep your prince’s hands away, sit often, and enjoy yourself. It’s too late to change now anyways.  Let’s go.”  

Sansa put her hands to her flaming cheeks.  Both of them descended into giggles and they exited the bedchamber hand in hand. Sansa was reminded of their childhood, whispering secrets to each other over stolen cakes like sisters. Mentally, she thanked her little brother for urging her to come to court.

But their laughter was ended once the turned the corner. All at once, Sandor stood in their way, hooded, his eyes peering out coldly.  He looked her up and down.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you brainless little fool?”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t spoken to her like that in years. When he had come to her all those weeks ago, Sansa had made a few conditions: he must stay hidden, he must not kill anyone, and he had to be courteous. “I will not tolerate you trying to scare me anymore, Sandor Clegane. I’m not a little bird anymore, I’m a direwolf, and wolves have no use for Hounds. You will act like a true knight, understand?” He’d nodded and agreed. So far, he’d kept his word.

Sansa straightened her back. Though she kept her voice soft and her mouth smiling, her tone was firm. “I am going to attend the king and queen’s dinner.”

“In that… sheer little sheet?” he said, his tone gaining an edge. “With your arse on full display for everyone to see? Do you want have half the men in the Keep grinding their cocks on you the second you bend over?  Or those Northerners of yours taking a blade to them for it?  What in the Seven’s name are you thinking?”

Sansa’s eyes flashed. “I will be dining tonight with a king, queen, princes, and the highest lord in the realm, among others. Men far too sophisticated for such behaviour---“

“Oh, aye, the Imp has always been so known for his refinement and restraint. And here I was thinking you actually wanted your marriage annulled.”

Sansa fumed. He’d been doing so well. Yes, Sandor had been a little too close for comfort sometimes, too omnipresent. Yes, he acted like every man in the Keep was an enemy. Yes, if he had his way, Sansa thought, I would be spending every moment locked away in my chambers until the annulment was passed.  But he’d not forced anything.  He had been a calming presence on her escort. Despite the fights he had broken up, he’d yet to really hurt anyone. And as pervasive as his presence could be, it could also be a comfort. She knew that with him there, nothing and no one would dare harm her.

“Shut your mouth, Dog!” Jeyne snarled, furious.

Sandor glared at Jeyne.  “Keep out of this, freak. You of all people should know the risks when a girl tempts a man too far—”

A second later, Sansa had torn off his hood, exposing his burned flesh. Another second later, she’d slapped him with all of her might. It made a sharp, ringing sound, and Sansa was willing to bet that her hand took more trauma than his face, but she didn’t regret it. _Say what you will to me, but not Jeyne.  Never._

Sandor stepped back, eyes wide.

All of a sudden, she felt her heart flutter.

“I just… I just want to keep you safe, Little Bird. They all… They all want to take you, use you, can’t you see that? They want Winterfell. They want House Stark. They want your teats and your cunny and your pretty red hair. But they don’t care about you. They care about Lady Stark, not… Not… Not you, Little Bird. They’ll hurt you, break you to take what they want. All of them. Even that Dornish prince of yours, even if you don’t see it.  And I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

“Sansa,” she said, eyes welling up, “I’m Sansa. I’m not a little bird. And you’re wrong. There are people who care about me.” She took Jeyne’s hand, and Jeyne squeezed back.  Sansa took strength from that, even as she could feel tears starting to run down her cheeks. “Is that so hard to believe? That maybe me, maybe Sansa, not Lady Stark but Sansa, might be able to make others care about her? That maybe I’m worth enough that more than just one person could love me and want to see me happy?”

“It’s not about you, Little Bird. It’s them. It’s them. All those rotten, filthy… They can’t see anything but themselves and what they want. You’re too good for them. Too good for them all. And they’ll try to ruin you, as they always have, try to make you as bad as the rest of them. But you’re not. And you have to… You have to be protected. From all of them.”

Sansa swallowed. “I went many years without you, Sandor Clegane. And I survived. And I can and will continue to do exactly that. And, if you want me to do that without you, I will.”  She felt her lip tremble, and fought back tears.  

“Don’t think she won’t,” Jeyne said, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her mistress. She gave Sansa a long, hard look. “Go on ahead, my Lady. I’ll handle him. If you cry any more, you’ll be all red-eyed when you meet the king and queen.”

Sansa looked at her friend, dubious.  

Jeyne’s face was resolute. “He won’t hurt me.”

She saw Sandor pale at that.  Jeyne ignored him.

“I can handle him. Sandor and I need to have a little talk.  Go.”

Sansa sniffed and took one step, then another.  She felt ridiculous in her tokar, taking tiny shuffling steps, holding up the end.  But with each step she felt like she was leaving her past behind.  You went too far Sandor.  I’m not your little bird.  I’m not.

_But sometimes I still feel like I am._

She rounded the corner.  When they could no longer see her, she leaned against the wall, and buried her face in her hands.   _All I wanted was one good night._   

The Lady of Winterfell looked towards the royal chambers, and duty.  Instead, she turned another corner, then cut through a small chamber, going back the way she came. She’d become good at hiding and sneaking in these halls years ago.  Soon she was back outside her own chambers.  She crept up to where she had left Jeyne and Sandor, keeping behind a convenient drapery.  

To her surprise, Sandor was sitting on the ground head in his hands. Jeyne was sitting beside him.  They were both quiet, and Jeyne had her hand on Sandor’s shoulder.  There was a long silence.  Sansa was about to give up and go when Jeyne finally spoke.

“That could have gone better,” she said.  There was no rancor in her tone.

Sandor let out a deep sigh.  “That girl hasn’t changed a wit. Neither have I, apparently. It went all wrong.  Years of prayer, and she has me all twisted up in a couple of moons.  But I have to get through to her --”

“Do you?” Jeyne said sharply.  “You’ve been lurking around her like … some kind of spectre.  It is unseemly.  People are starting to talk.  And if you think no one will recognize you, or think to ask questions about who the seven foot tall hulking horse’s arse with the burnt face is and come up with one name … well you’re more of a fool than I think you are, and that’s saying something.”

Sandor scowled. “We’ve talked about this.  She’s in danger, I can feel it.  She needs me.”    

“Maybe.”  Jeyne said slowly.  “I told you what Lord Tyrion said.”

 _What did Tyrion say?_ Her heart quickened,   _And why didn’t Jeyne come to me?_

But Sandor just nodded.  “The Imp’s no fool.”

“But ….” Jeyne took a breath.  “Maybe you want her to need you.  You can’t keep living in those days when she was a prisoner of the Lannisters, when you could speak to her whenever and however you wished.  She’s a great lady of the realm.  Not the likes of you or I.  And soon she’ll wed a great lord.  You can’t keep her in a cage, no matter how you might want to.  She doesn’t belong to you, Clegane. I know you can’t accept it, but it’s true.”

“I don’t think she belongs to me!” Sandor growled.

“Yes, you do. That’s why you’re always calling her Little Bird, no matter how many times she tells you not to.”  Jeyne shook her head.  “She has a name.”  

“A cage… I tried to get her out of the bloody cage! She wouldn’t come with me! I wanted to keep her safe! But she refused! I was ready to drag her out of that burning city, kill every little shit who tried to lay a hand on her. But she… she wouldn’t… I was a fool, I frightened her.”

“Is that all it was?”  Jeyne asked.  “Sansa spoke of that night, but …”  There was a note of dubiousness in her voice, as if Jeyne had not believed everything she had heard.  Sansa frowned.  

Sandor let out a sob.  “I prayed.  To all the seven, the Mother for her mercy.  I was drunk, and half-mad with the fear.  There were fires, and men burning… I demanded a song, told her to sing for me with a knife to her throat.”

Sansa’s mind flashed back to that night, and she felt her breath catch.  She remembered.  The fires and the fear.  Ilyn Payne’s face and Cersei’s mocking words.  Running back to her room, barring the door … and then Sandor was there.  She felt her breath catch.   _On my bed.  No._

Jeyne drew breath sharply.  “And then you forced a kiss on her?”

“What?”  His head jerked up, and he looked stunned.  “No!  I wanted that.  That and more.  But I swear, I never kissed her.”  He shook his head.  “I prayed for forgiveness.  I thought I had been redeemed.  Or that I could redeem myself by making her safe, the way I should have.”

Sansa felt her stomach jump. _But I remembered a kiss.  I remembered that, and a bloody cloak, and that I trusted him never to hurt me.  He was the one person in King’s Landing I could trust. The only one._ She’d thought differently before, thinking her Florian was more trustworthy. But that turned out to be a lie. _Only Sandor…. Right?_ She felt so lost.

Jeyne let out a snort.  “Clegane – did you have the brains of a hound that night, as well as the helm of one?”  Her tone was crisp.   “You wanted to drag her across the Seven Realms with armies of madmen everywhere and Lannister men trying to track you down. Remember the prices on your head? And you wanted to drag her through the woods with no one else around. What if one night you decided the Mother’s Hymn wasn’t enough? What if one night you decided to enlighten her as to what you really meant when said you wanted a song?”

“No,” the man sobbed, clutching his face, “I would never, ever force anything on her! Not on her. Never her.”

“Are you sure?” Jeyne looked dubious. “The man you were then?  I’m not. You’re not well, Clegane. Maybe you’re not The Hound anymore, but you’re not a well man. This has to stop. You want to keep her safe? So do I. But she’s not going to let you if you act like this. If you don’t let her live her own life. You can’t… You can’t base everything in your life around her. It’s not right. You’re pushing her away. You’re pushing everyone away.  You’d promised to act like a gentleman, but tonight you didn’t. You broke that vow. How can we trust you not to break your promise not to hurt her?”

Sandor glared at Jeyne. “If there was ever a true vow I’ve made, it’s that one.”

Jeyne sighed. “You’re a brother. You swore your life to serve the gods themselves. You swore yourself to the Faith, the same Faith that has fostered and cared for you for years. But the one true vow you’ve made is the one to her? The girl whose name you can’t even say? Don’t you see why that doesn’t work? You’re placing your little bird above the Seven themselves, and your little bird doesn’t even exist. Sansa exists.”

Jeyne turned and got on her knees then. She placed a hand on either side of his face, her fingers resting on his scarred flesh as surely and gently as the unscarred part of him. “Sansa, not your little bird, Sansa. The Little Bird is gone, as gone as the Hound.”

He pulled away and buried his face again. “She’s the one good thing in this shit world, and I can’t let the last bit of good in this world be hurt. Not anymore.”

Sansa felt her heart ache. As good as it felt to know she mattered that much to someone, the loneliness of such a statement wounded her. _That’s not true,_ she wanted to scream, _that’s not true at all!_

“She’s not the last bit of good in this world, Clegane. Shut up.” Jeyne reached over again, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look up at her. “There are many good people, good things. Maybe if you spent less time fixating on her, you’d notice them. Sansa didn’t just come from nowhere. She’s good, most of the time, I’ll grant you.  When she’s not being silly and mooning over a good body and a head of curls.

Even in her distress, Sansa shifted.  That was unfair. _I fantasized about this idiot, too. I am not so shallow as all that._

Jeyne continued. “But there were things that made her that way. People who made her that way. Maybe it’s time you started recognizing that. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair to anyone, and especially not to her, if she has to be the one good thing left to you. And it’s not fair to you either, because before long, you’re going to push her away, and then you’ll be so warped, you’ll have truly lost the ability to see any goodness at all.”

Sandor’s eye flickered downward, his mouth twisting. “You don’t understand, you don’t---“

Then Jeyne’s hand clenched, and she looked for a moment if she wanted to slap him, just as Sansa had done.  “Don’t you dare suggest for one moment that I don’t know about the awful things in this world, Sandor Clegane. You think I don’t know?”

Sandor looked suddenly stunned, his gaze meeting Jeyne’s once more. He looked suddenly smaller, and almost cowed.  Sansa found herself staring as well.  It was like watching a lapdog savage a mastiff.   _He never did that for me._

“You miserable bastard, you look at my face and tell me I don’t know. Those scars on your face came from your tormentor. But this?” She pointed to the hole where her nose once sat. “This is the price I paid to get away from mine. And as my nose froze and shrivelled and broke off of me, I cried, but still knew that this was far better than what I was running from.”  Jeyne’s voice shook.  “I would have lost a nose, an eye, and both my ears to get away from my husband.  And do you know how I got away? Someone helped me.  A man who looked sixty at twenty. A man who had almost every bit of himself cut away. A man who had killed children and betrayed his best friend. But I still saw the good in him. And that’s why I’m right here, right now, talking to you. Because I looked at a turncloak called Reek, and I asked him to take me away from the monster who was hurting us both.  And he did.”  

Sandor looked pale.  “I’m sorry.  I wish …  I’m sorry for what happened.”

Jeyne nodded.  She cleared her throat. “He’s dead now, by the way.”  A stranger would never have heard the tremor in her throat.  “The man who saved me.   Theon. That was his real name. Theon Greyjoy. He died at the Wall, fighting the Others.  And I’m still here because of him.  And I can never tell him thank you.”

She made a face, and turned her head away.  After a moment, Sandor raised a huge hand and put it on her shoulder.  He said nothing, but his face was softer, less anguished.  “I’ll mention him in my prayers, girl.”  

“He didn’t follow the Seven.”

Sandor shrugged.  “Man who helped me said it will all come to the same in the end.  And girl?  I’m sorry I called you a freak.  And I’ll think on what you’ve said.”    

Sansa turned away, and made her way towards the royal chambers by a different route.  She felt lost.   _Sandor will see sense.  He has a good heart, if he listens to it.  Jeyne will see to it that he does nothing improper.  But perhaps…_ she wondered if she should send him away, for his own sake.   _I misjudged so much._   _Misremembered.  I thought of him as the Kingsguard, the true knight working to keep me safe.  But perhaps that was a mistake as well.  I have put too much trust in him._

Once again the Battle of the Blackwater came to mind. Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes again.  Quickly, she tried to dash them away.   _I’m in no state to dine with the royal family._

A shadow cast over her then.

“Lady Stark?”

Sansa looked up to find Henrick Flint, heir to Flint’s Finger, standing in her path.  She forced herself to smile at him.   Henrick was one of the better looking of her honor guard: dark haired, young, slim, and quick. He liked calling her a “Winter Rose” and “Princess”, something she’d laughed about up North and began discouraging once they got south of Riverrun.  He had honoured her wishes.

Henrick behaved himself better than some of the others as well.   _He comes from a good family,_ she thought.  His father had died fighting for the north in Robert’s Rebellion, and his older brother perished at the Red Wedding.  But for all his troubles, he always seemed to have a smile and a ready quip.

Now he frowned, and produced a handkerchief.  Sansa took it, and dabbed away at her cheeks.  She was mortified.  

“My lady, where is your escort?  What are you doing here?”

The question was rather bluntly put, but Sansa decided to just pretend nothing was amiss rather than explain the embarrassing circumstances. “I am making for the royal solar, the king and queen are hosting a little get-together.”

Henrick looked at her garment, and blanched.  “In that … sheet?”  His eyes trailed downwards, and he looked even more shocked.  He looked back to her face, seeming to be forcing himself to keep his eyes above the neck.  “Was this the king’s idea to make you dress like this?  Or his cousin’s?  What did Prince Jon say about this?”

Sansa wrinkled her nose, heart sinking. “It’s not a _sheet_ ,” she said indignantly.  “It’s a _tokar_. The garb for Meereenese nobility. It’s a tribute to our eastern brethren.”

“Eastern brethren?” Henrick’s eyes flashed. It seemed to annoy him. “You’re a Northern girl. You belong in Northern clothing, in the North, close to your true brethren.”

Sansa began to lose her patience. Tonight had been nothing more than a disaster so far, and she wasn’t more than a hundred paces from her quarters.  She was so very tired of men telling her what she should do and where she belonged. It was times like this when she felt she really understood her late sister. “I think it is for me to decide where I belong and how I should dress. My true brother agrees. You remember Bran, the Lord of Winterfell? He rules the North, and I obey him.  No one else.”

“You ruled the North,” Flint said, his eyes softening. “You ruled it well.  Then that brother of yours sent you down here as he approached his majority.”

 _No._ Sansa was shocked.   _Is that what my escort thinks?_   “You misunderstand.  Bran didn’t send me anywhere, I chose to go.  It was necessary, to arrange the annulment.  And I have been happy here at court.  The Queen has shown me favour--”

“---You could have been a queen. Many of us think of you as our queen, still. Queen of the North in our hearts, if not in title.  It’s where you’re meant to be.  Your home.”

Flint sort of smiled as he said this, and Sansa decided he was just trying to be charming, to make her feel better. So she smiled back. “Of course I miss home, but Winterfell belongs to Bran, and after him, Rickon.”

“I don’t know about that. Was it Bran or Rickon who reclaimed it?”

 _No, but that’s not the point. This isn’t Dorne._ Sansa was not exactly fond of the disadvantages of her sex, but she did not reclaim the North to upset the traditions there. Even if she wanted to, between rebuilding her ancestral home, fighting a war, and recuperating the immense landmass that made up her family’s lands, there wasn’t exactly room for overturning the rules of inheritance. And she had no wish to take anything from her little brothers. Just as much had been taken from them, if not more. She’d not take yet more.

“It’s Bran and Rickon who come before me in the succession,” Sansa replied, “They are trueborn sons. I am a daughter.”

Flint’s smile died away, and his face was suddenly angry. “You’re a woman, aye, but you’re strong and beautiful and wise.  Your sons will rule the North.   Your Northmen want their princess back. Their queen. We want to take you home and keep you where you belong. We want our Winter Rose, not a cripple and a maniac.”

Sansa was shocked, and furious.  She wanted to speak sharply to him.   _No, his family is loyal and powerful, and they have sacrificed much for the Starks._ Instead she stepped away, feeling vulnerable when she could only take tiny steps in the tight tokar.  She forced herself to keep her tone level.  “You must not speak of my brothers in such a way. Bran is your liege lord. He is the Lord of Winterfell. Now I must go. ”

“What, and sup with that desert monkey?” Flint hissed. “That Dornish snake? And the Targaryens who are trying to turn you into his whore?  Lord Bran might be a foolish boy who wants you gone, and Prince Jon may be blinded by love of his brother the king, but we won’t stand for it. You’re our Winter Rose and we won’t let another southern shit who calls himself a prince take you from us. Not again. The North remembers.”

Sansa backed away a few more little steps. _Sounds like there is someone else who wishes to call himself a prince._ “Are you drunk, Lord Henrick? You’re frightening me.”

“I’ve had a few cups, Princess, but I know what I mean to say. I can see why you’re tempted to go as far south as south goes. You think the North doesn’t love you.” Henrick came forward. Close. Much too close. She could feel the heat of his body and hobbled back some more.  If he noticed, he gave no sign. His eyes were flashing.

“I understand.  We real northerners, the ones who have come here for you, we all understand. Your brothers certainly didn’t. Probably that southern blood mixed in. For you, it only affected your looks. I can’t say the same for your brothers. Robb let you languish in the capital instead of trading for you and bringing you back home safe when he could. Rickon’s too mad to care.”  He took a step closer.  Sansa could smell the wine on his breath.  “And Bran forced you to go back to court and is ready to sell you off to some brown-skinned desert animal. Even that bastard cousin of yours has forgotten his northern blood.  Aside from you, the last true Starks died with Brandon, Lyanna, and with your sister.”

Sansa wanted to tell him to shut up the second Arya was mentioned, as her sister would have. But her voice seemed to die in her throat. Arya’s wouldn’t have. But she wasn’t her sister, so Henrick kept talking.

“Even your father was too warped by the Arryns, probably why he was willing to sell you to the Lannisters. But we, we true Northmen, we intend to keep our girl safe. Our last Winter Rose.”  He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek, then lowered it when she flinched away.  “I know you do not love me.  I do not intend to presume.  But we all love you well, Princess, and we’ll do whatever it takes to keep you where you belong.”

A chill went down her spine. _He’s drunk, and foolish.  He isn’t a bad man.  Why is he saying these things?  How have I let things go so wrong?_ “If you love me well, my Lord, then you will cease scaring me. My family are precious to me. My father. My mother. My brothers. My sister---“ She had to choke back a sob at that. But she strengthened her resolve. _Arya you were supposed to be at Winterfell, laughing and playing with the boys. But you weren’t. Now I have to be strong._ “--And I will not hear them insulted. My brothers have as much Stark in them as I do, they have the wolves to prove it. My wolf is gone—“

“---Because your father killed her!” That made her voice die again as her heart twisted in on itself. Shut up. Shut up. Don’t talk about it. Don’t. Henrick shook his head. “We all loved Ned Stark, but he was softened by all those years in the Vale. He didn’t protect you like he should have. He was weak, so he killed your wolf. Maybe that wolf you had is dead, but the wolf in you isn’t.”

She found her strength again.

“You’re right,” Sansa said, holding back the heartache over the reminder of Arya, of Father, of Mother, of Lady, of all she’d lost, “Which is why I protect the pack I have left. And why I will not abide by your slander of my brothers.”

They were interrupted by the rapid padding of feet against the marble floor, the clacking of claws. Sansa knew that sound at once. She turned. Ghost. Her cousin’s direwolf came to her side and stared at Flint with red eyes.

Sansa stepped back some more and twisted her hand in the animal’s fur. “My pack summons me, Lord Henrick. If you’ll excuse me.”

Flint stared at her for a moment, then bowed his head.  “As you wish.  My lady.  My queen.”  He bowed, and turned away.

Sansa let out a sigh a relief.   _He will sleep it off, and be heartily sorry in the morning_ , she thought, but even her own mental reassurances sounded hollow.  Perhaps she should speak to Daven Cerwyn, or maybe Jon, have one of them speak to Flint.

She sighed, and had a moment she wished she could speak to Myranda Royce or Mya Stone.  Jeyne and she had no secrets, and Daenerys was fast becoming a good friend, but neither of them were much older than Sansa herself.  She wished there was another woman, someone wiser, that she could speak to.  For a moment, she thought of her mother.  Then she steeled herself.  Those days were past.  Now Sansa was a woman grown; she had to deal with her problems herself.   

She made for the royal chambers, Ghost walking along beside her. Sansa paused for a second a few yards from the entrance to her destination, turned to Ghost and put her arms around him. “Sweet boy, thank you.  I wish you could deal with all my troubles so easily.”

It almost seemed like he could, for a moment. Something about resting her face in his fur calmed her so much. She’d experienced a similar thing when embracing Summer, but for whatever reason, Ghost’s effect on her was even more calming. Perhaps it was because while her younger brothers’ wolves were more wild, Ghost was another matter. The animal was not just silent as the grave, but he was well-trained and calm. Like Lady was.

“Trouble, my Lady?”

Sansa turned slowly. Trystane Martell did a little double-take as she did, his dark eyes having been pointed downwards. The tokar. He was looking at my backside. She felt a wild laugh rising in her chest.  It had only been a few minutes since she had left her quarters, but she had almost forgotten the sense of daring that had accompanied her decision to don the foreign garb.   _No.  I won’t let jealous men ruin this night._

Trystane certainly looked appreciative.  His dark eyes were dancing.  Sansa shivered, but in a good way this time.   _He’s so handsome._  She’d stolen a couple of glimpses at him in the yard, when his long Dornish robes were off and he was in tunics and trousers only.  She found herself smiling again.  This was supposed to be fun.  It was beginning to feel fun again.   

“Perhaps, but please don’t promise to protect me from it,” she begged him, still leaning against the direwolf a little. Maybe it was all the ridiculous encounters making her feel a little faint. _Or maybe it’s the way his hair falls into his eyes._

He wiggled his brows in a mischievous manner that brought a smile to tease her lips. “We’re not promised, nor kin, my Lady.  It would be improper for me to make such a vow.”

 _More the pity_ , she almost said aloud. But instead she smiled and allowed a soft, wistful sigh. That said enough without being indecent.

Trystane smiled. “And even so, I’m fairly certain you can take care of yourself. One does not survive a northern winter without means of her own.”

Sansa felt her heart flutter. Yes, thank you. “Good. I’m so weary of people calling me a bird or a rose or some other delicate thing.”

“Birds have talons and sharp beaks and they can fly. Roses have thorns. But I think I must trust your companion here,” Trystane nodded to Ghost, “He recognizes you as one of his own, so you must be a direwolf."

“And you? What are you? The sun?” _I spent years in the North in winter. I could use some sun._

Trystane glanced around, pondering. Then his eyes softened. “I am only a man, my Lady. A man who may not be able to solve all your troubles, but certainly is willing to offer you his arm and escort you to dinner, if you so wish.”

 _I wish I could just have you for dinner_. She felt wicked and safe at the same time. Despite what they’d said, Trystane could protect her. Being a married woman, being truly wedded and bedded, would protect her. _No more suitors waiting with baited breath to pounce._ _No more uncertainty about where I will spend the rest of my days. I’ll have a babe of my own, a keep of my own, someone to keep me warm at night._

She smiled at Trystane and nearly sighed with relief as he smiled back. _And it’s you. Someone who will make love to me properly and treat me well and won’t hurt me. How many girls of high birth are so lucky?  An advantageous political match that I actually want._

Still, she was shaken. _I have to get rid of the others,_ she thought, as Trystane took her arm and she made her way to the royal solar with tiny mincing steps. _No more dancing around, trying to keep the bannermen pleased.  No more worrying about Sandor and his dire warnings. Time to tell them to leave before they ruin everything.  I can manage this_.

As soon as the festival was over, she’d give the order.  And once the annulment was formalized, Trystane would write to Bran, and soon she would be betrothed.  And all this trouble would be behind her.

***

Daenerys:

 _I am not seeing what I think I am seeing._  Daenerys forced herself to keep her jaw from dropping as Sansa Stark glided into the room in a tightly wrapped silver and white tokar, leaning on Trystane’s arm for support, pausing near the door to greet a wide-eyed Jon with a smile, joke, and kiss to the cheek.   _No.  And she looks fabulous. Damnit._

Daenerys had to don tokars frequently enough when dealing with emissaries from Slavers’ Bay, to the point where she had suggested to Aegon that they give up all claims to the domains just to be rid of the blasted things.  Her husband had just laughed.  But tokars looked far better on tall people, Daenerys thought, looking at the way the garments clung to Sansa’s curves, how the perfect amount of fringe trailed on the floor behind her.  When Dany put one on, the best that could be said was that she was in there somewhere.

“Oh my,” Aegon commented, from his seat at Dany’s right hand.  Then he flushed, and gave her a guilty look.  “I mean …”

Rescue came from Lady Lyria, seated with Tyrion, who whispered something in her ear with wide eyes.  “Oh, that isn’t tight at all for a young woman’s tokar,” she said, with a laugh. “When I was her age, my friends and I would go out so tightly wound that we had to be carried.  And then when we were out of our parent’s view, we would wet ourselves down so the fabric would cling even more.”

Tyrion’s head popped up like the prairie dogs Dany had seen on the Dothraki plains.  “You never mentioned this,” he told his mistress.

“Oh I’m far too old for such fun.  But if you are good for the festival, perhaps we can arrange a private demonstration,” Lyria said with a wicked smile.  

“Define ‘good’,” Tyrion caged. Lyria let her eyes do the talking. Dany took another long drink. Her Hand and his mistress had never been the subtlest of lovers. But once the announcement was made, they’d lost most of whatever restraint they’d formerly possessed. It could get embarrassing. _For pity’s sake, they act live love-struck youths, eager to sneak away and tumble in the barn thinking no one will notice._

Her husband seemed similarly embarrassed by this flirting. He refilled both his and his wife’s cup. As he poured hers, his eyes strayed again and fastened to their guest’s backside when she turned slightly. And he nearly spilled the Dornish vintage into his wife’s lap. Dany grabbed his wrist and straightened it. Another guilty look.

“Enjoying yourself?” The queen asked. She wasn’t. She’d spent the morning throwing up and the Dornish Red was one of the few things that managed to settle her stomach.

“I just want my cousin to be happy,” Aegon said, a bit pompously.  

Daenerys gave him a sharp look.  “Nothing is settled yet.  And the matter is between the two of them--- and Dorne, and the North.” They’re not just people, they’re countries. Dany sighed sadly. “This isn’t just about happiness. After all, I had two political marriages before my sixteenth nameday.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened. “And I make three, is that it?  You want to spare your friend the horror of being wed to the likes of me?”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”  Daenerys fumed and looked away.   _If you didn’t take every little comment as an insult, Husband, perhaps you wouldn’t have needed me to secure your throne._  She wanted so badly to say this out loud. _But one of us has to be an adult._

Tyrion and Lyria exchanged glances.  Dany saw them, and knew what they were both thinking. _Oh no, they are going to argue again and ruin the festival._  She knew they were right.  Nothing would be served by fighting with Aegon tonight.   _Smile.  I must smile and make nice._

“We’ve found happiness in our own time, my love,” she said, reaching up to stroke his arm.  “Have we not?  I merely want others to know the same.”  

Aegon gave her a look that said he wasn’t a fool.  Then he glanced at her belly.  “As you say, my queen.”

 _You are backing down for the sake of this child,_ she thought as her husband sat again, eyes still on her stomach,   _Not for me.  Am I just a broodmare to you?_  She clenched her teeth in anger, and swallowed it along with the wine that had been poured for her. Several minutes of uncomfortable silence followed.

“Oh look,” Tyrion broke in.  “We have another guest.  Unexpected.  Interesting.”

Daenerys looked to the entryway, where Mace Tyrell was fussing over not only his pretty daughter Margaery, as usual, but also over a well-dressed chestnut haired young man clutching an exquisitely carved crutch.  The Master of Coin beckoned both young people forward.

“I’m going to need more wine,” Dany said.  A full goblet was immediately deposited at her elbow.  

This had been a possibility, one she’d hoped wouldn’t become a reality. Mace Tyrell had somehow learned of this occasion and began not so subtly hinting at a desire to join them. “My eldest son is arriving this afternoon to court, Your Grace,” Mace told her over the council table, as if he’d not mentioned Willas’ arrival about a dozen times already over the weeks, “He’s a really brilliant young man. Quite the conversationalist. Perhaps your little get together might be livened up by some of my son’s witticisms.”

They’d tried to handle it delicately. The Tyrells were too rich, too powerful to be refused outright, but they’d dropped hints. _I thought the fool had gotten them._

Much to his heir’s apparent embarrassment, Mace was cold to Trystane, all while pushing both his children toward Jon and his cousin-- Margaery toward Jon, Willas toward Sansa. She saw her nephew stiffen a bit. Sansa leaned over and whispered a soft suggestion in Trystane’s ear, her eyes flickering to Jon in concern. The prince of Dorne reluctantly went to go get some wine and Sansa moved closer to her cousin, taking his arm protectively.

Jon seemed to relax somewhat, and for a split second, his eyes went to Dany. The look there caused the queen to smile just a bit. He’ll have some entertaining remarks to share about this in the morning.

Dany wished she could hear what was being said, but the small party was too far away. _Not so eager to greet their king and queen. But then, we’re married._ She emptied her cup and beckoned an attendant to refill it at once.

Lyria was looking into the gathering. “Sansa … she looks upset.”

 _Oh, must everything be about Sansa and her damned love life?_  Dany thought, utterly irritated. She’d been told a few times since she came to court that the affairs of a pretty, highborn, unattached woman would often be a source of interest, but this was ridiculous. _I’d marry the woman myself if it would make everyone in my circle shut up about her._ She glanced at her husband, who was looking sulky and angry. _The lady does hide her ill humor a bit better than my current kingly spouse._ Then before she could stop herself, she burst out laughing.

Everyone stopped and stared. Dany felt a bit chastened at their expressions. “Excuse me,” she said, taking a sip from her refilled cup. A long one.

“Perhaps I should go and say something?” Aegon suggested.

“No!” Everyone else snapped in unison.

 _I miss Drogon._ She’d kept off his back for weeks at the urging of every maester and her husband, who sometimes seemed to believe he had a chain around his neck judging by the way he talked down to her sometimes. She of course visited her scaled children, but always under careful supervision. _I’ve spent too much time around people and not enough time around my dragons._ Even the people she liked were starting to annoy her.

Eventually, the Tyrells were bid to come up and greet them. Dany cast a long, penetrating look upon the heir to Highgarden. He was not a slightly older, crippled version of his brother Garlan, as Dany had half-expected. Indeed, she was intrigued by how humble and shy he seemed. When his father announced him in a loud, booming voice, Willas had the good grace to blush slightly. It was easy to notice, as his skin was so pale. But despite his otherwise slight form, he was broad-shouldered. _Not bad-looking_ , she mused, _good hair, sweet countenance, fine smile._

The way they ended up assembling led to the Tyrells being sandwiched farthest from her and Aegon, with Margaery right between her father and brother. Tyrion suggested Willas sit beside Trystane, and Dany nearly strangled him. But the suggestion didn’t end up being as catastrophic as she originally imagined.

Willas did manage to provoke some tension, however. He spoke quite charmingly, as his father had promised, and he spoke to the Lady of Winterfell often. As it so happened, he was very knowledgeable about a number of songs, poems, and books she loved, and shared with her a fondness for animals. Such was the depths of their conversation that Trystane began to lose a little patience, and Dany wondered if her friend was trying to make him jealous.

At one point, Trystane got up from his chair, “Cousin,” he said to the king sharply, “Join me for a drink on the promenade? I don’t want to stand in the way of our charming guests and their conversation any longer.”

Aegon looked at his cousin in surprise, as if to say, _You don’t?!_

Sansa seemed startled by this, and a look of embarrassment and disappointment crossed her face. She blushed and stared at her lap as the two cousins departed. “Forgive me, Lord Willas,” she said in cowed resignation, “I believe I have caused offense.”

 _Oh, let the stupid boys sulk,_ Dany nearly snapped. But she doubted that would help matters. An awkward silence was left until Tyrion broke it with a rude jape about wetted tokars.

Aegon returned soon after, a satisfied look on his face. He leaned in at that point towards his wife. “I feel things may have just grown a bit more secure. Your little friend has just sworn that she’s devoted to him.”

 _Well, if that’s settled, then she will be as well. And we can finally cease all this nonsense,_ Dany thought wearily. The end of the festival couldn’t come fast enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review!
> 
> And please check out [WendyNerd](http://wendynerdwrites.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!
> 
> Some select chapters (where noted) were co-written by Chapter co-beta'd with [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid). Various plot points and elements were also a collaborative effort between Blue and myself.


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